“Office Hours,” “In the Early Morning,” and “Exit Strategy”

He declares he will fly

with such certainty

I do not believe

he is being metaphorical.

 

Who am I to say perhaps,

maybe?  Isn’t shaping possibilities

why I am sitting in this office?

 

But I know he will fall

                    to earth

                                        chasing Icarus.

 

When he does,

I will still be in this office.

My twice his age

double his disappointments

knows the falling,

the failures,

the sad ugliness of it all

is the essential lesson.

 

I will say to my wounded wizard

get up and pass through the liminal space

where everything ebbs to some things.

 

This is your rite of passage.

I cling to the half sleep of mothers.

The sleep which is

more rest than restore,

more hush than slumber.

The ceiling fan paints shadows

on the wall above the dresser

and I nestle deeper

into my alone.

Just stillness and the drape

of a nightshirt against my thigh.

Birds still quiet,

there is no body

that needs

or wants

mine.

No baby to feed

or lover to reassure.

In this moment

my body belongs

to me

alone.

Until, as if conspiring

with robins and sparrows,

the baby begins to chirp.

I lay and listen

as she shares stories

with the morning.

She in her own mind,

I in mine.

Until, hungry,

she tires of her solitude

and so,

steals mine.

There is a pain under the soft bend of my knee.

Blood clot, perhaps. I feel oddly hopeful.

This, if ignored, could be my exit.

I have begun to think of bullets and wonder

how often death by suicide is premeditated and

how often it is exhaustion and impulse.

I’ve lived a life with some meaning, but

not enough to matter. I can’t fix what is broken.

I’m unable to mend who is shattered.

A blood clot floating to my lungs, stealing

my breath would leave me blameless.

No shots fired. I could be laid to rest.