Written by Shana McDonald
Feverishly chasing the sunshine,
I learn to co-exist with the incessant chill in my bones.
Yielding to its embalming paralysis of self and soul,
home is now an ungiving un-sanctuary,
its inhabitants mummified.
Warm sunlight bathes the windows;
its taunting golden tendrils
stir false hope and spin tales of better days ahead.
We look beyond the bright light and see weeds everywhere…
they grow in her sunbath and smudge the path to relief.
No matter how hard I pluck, pull, and prune
practicing the patience they demand,
and praying for passage to the next chapter,
my words and actions feel like fertilizer for their covetous roots -
l e n g t h e n i n g,
in the Mountain once called “Us,” “We,” “One,”
wrapping ever so slowly around all things rosy and sanguine
until its chokehold strikes grey.
He has had to learn to breathe
despite the l o n g implacable choke,
the restriction of thought,
the badgering of self,
the interruption of laughter.
He rises with no hope and
hits the pillow when the tears have run dry,
eyelids so weary, they cannot be willed to lift.
The cocoon of medications stand guard over the night’s watch,
battling demons no one else can understand,
fighting frantically to find rest.
His practice of belonging to himself is no longer,
his mind no longer his practice.