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Domestic Hubris
© 02.12.09 By Michelle M. Tokarczyk
We readied that house as if
wall-to-wall carpeting could still
the hands rummaging through bags for bags
As if shaking down feathers into fullness
would untangle fibroid masses in her brain.
Fuse my face with my name.
As if walls freshly coated with golden paint,
cushions fastened to polished kitchen chairs
could fix the past in the past.
This is the oldest folly, the one
we cannot abandon.
That we can wrap up
those we love, cover their necks with blankets
rock them in the scent of fresh laundry,
tell them it will be all right, when, of course, it won't.
That when we hear them wail, we understand the source
of their pain, but we understand only the sound itself.
That as our parents' shoulders shrivel, as their sight clouds,
their vision becoming a periphery, our hands are strong enough
to steady them. Our eyes can make shapes in the darkness.
As though we do not feel aging in our chins leaning on our hands.
As though we understood. Or it mattered if we did.
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