by Zinta Aistars
A gorgeous accident, our meeting,
blind leading the blind
with our perfectly matched set
of crippling addictions –
where you sway, I lean,
where you lean, I pull away,
eyes rolling back into a soul scream.
This path I’ve never walked,
yet know: it’s mine, shaped
to catch the clip and pace of my stride.
To learn to walk like this again,
child in me knocking about,
bruised knees and scraped elbows,
cherished hopes long ago lost,
and lost again, reclaiming
ancient treasures as an elderly girl,
gray at the temples,
young at the bruised heart.
Where do such paths lead?
If first through a bramble,
wounding as often as healing,
spilling old blood, ripping open
jagged and aging scars, badly stitched.
Festering memories, still living
ghosts, familiar demons,
favored crutches lifelong
come to dance in our living room.
Enough. I speak it, taste it, now: enough.
Mantra, battle cry, death throes
cry: enough, enough, enough.
Where this path may lead,
matters less than what is
left behind – boundaries drawn,
encircling a dignity regained,
a place for respect,
fertile ground for love,
if no one else’s, at least mine,
the face in the mirror
found. Another gorgeous accident,
our meeting, my face and that
reflection with clearer sight.
I lean into the path, and it catches me.