(I may edit this further but I really wanted to get this up today)
Not today (I will not even say the words),
today I am a mother wrestling with balance.
Maybe tomorrow I’ll let myself die a little in my mind;
a game I play now while I wait for Tuesday.
I call it practice, though I rather think of my spine.
Tuesday has become more than a day of the week
this Tuesday they will take slow pictures of me from the inside out
but today I can not afford to die
the wind wasn’t right and there weren’t any clouds.
They call, sometimes
to ask how I am, if I know anything more,
even though Tuesday hasn’t come,
they want me to keep them informed
to call them
the list grows
and my reticence does too.
Tuesday, Tuesday, Tuesday,
I repeat to myself
the day of Tyr’s day,
god of victory
knowing that he holds that day gives me comfort.
If I was mystical I might find a way of making an offering
instead I focus on the things of life
ladder rungs that need tightening
sometimes when I am alone,
walking the city
I hear the ghosts,
have always heard the ghosts
what child should grow up with them
their names always present on peoples tongues.
The list grows
the mouths that spoke the names are now ghosts.
and I find myself invoking all of them
my son destined to grow up where they inhabit,
to know the stories without ever looking into their eyes.
It is these ghosts that makes them call
because I am so far away (only the ghosts have followed me)
all they see are the ghosts
we are a family awash in them.
But the ghosts can not take over my life
because I am not dying