I WALKED PAST YOU

as you stood there on my porch
smiling at me like we hadn't parted,
dangerously close to that final
goodbye, went inside without

speaking, absently fed the fish
that I'd named Hope while I still
had some, wondered why it refuses
to die even when I give it so little.
You say we should talk and I search

the files of my brain for anything
I'd be willing to say to you now,
anything that wouldn't leak pain
and disappointment, grief, the persistent
sorrow that seeps out from my pores.

The truth is I don't know what
to share with you about my life
that you might even care to know
because it isn't about you. Would
you want to know about the peace

in me as I fell out into the air, the floating
down through clouds like in the dreams
of many years, the power in me as I held
my fear without it holding me? Would
you want to know about the aging woman

staring back at me from the mirror, eyes
too long without the light of love,
how I came away smiling and exhausted
from my granddaughter's birthday party
blessed by hugs and laughter, the

hedonistic joyfulness of little girls still too
young to give up hope, the terror as I,
checking and re-checking doors and
windows, lay awake alone listening
for hours after the midnight phone calls

from a stranger, how my work
fulfills me, swamps my creativity at times,
and seeds deep questions about my purpose
in the world, how I am learning painfully slowly to live
without you more and more, how any sign

that you could ever really love me
would always bring me home?

© Joan Barton, 1999

Next...

Back to The Poems.