POEM STARTER
Write an elegy about the death of something other than a person.
An elegy is a sad poem, traditionally expressing sorrow for someone who has passed away.
The Gathering
CW: SA
I stumble and I fumble and finally I tumble.
As I quickly try to gather everything before it crumbles.
Maybe I gave the wrong impression? Maybe I stammered, scrambled, mumbled…
After all how can I trust a mind that’s just so very jumbled?
_Let’s have some confidence here; it’s okay, let’s not be humble._
_You said no._
He heard… go?
_Go…? _
_No…_
_I don’t think so…_
__
__
There must be something… body language… is how we mostly uncover__
__
what it is we’re really trying to say to each other…
especially when it’s words between lovers…
_You kicked your legs, you pushed him back._
_That’s a physical attack._
Maybe it looked playful, a play-hit and push and smack?
_It wasn’t playful to push back until he heard a crack._
_And then keep pushing after that…_
__
__
But then I stopped…
I became afraid he’d get more rough.
Maybe he thought it’d all been bluff.
Why didn’t I want him to stop badly enough?
_You could have said nothing._
_You could have done nothing._
_Nothing is not permission for something._
_And the question is_
_Why did you so badly want to be loved_
_that you imagined excuses beyond and above?_
_Because being loved is all that we want._
_To be safe is to be loved;_
_a love that is not safe is thin and frail and has gone gaunt._
_And maybe even worse, _
_it’s wholly gone, _
_a ghost that’s only left to haunt._
__
And if the one that’s meant to love you doesn’t
the safe world that was maybe wasn’t…
I have gathered here today
every piece that risks decay
every part wanting to stray
and every bit that needs to stay.
Here before us lays
the world we thought was safe.
It is gone. Done. In grave.
But we, all three, will build safety.
A new, more true, more due safety.
With nothing but
our older hands,
the labor that our truth demands,
and this here, this spot, right where it lay.
We’ll use this very Earth’s own clay.