When we wander where we
wandered when we wandered
wordlessly, when wooded wilds
wisely whispered wait – when
wingbeats wavered windwardly,
while wildflowers warmly waved,
wreathed with weightless webs,
worriless we wander when
we wander wordlessly.
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Foot Bindings
I asked my grandmother how she knew she'd fallen in love. I am not sure I ever did love him, she said. This was before I met my husband. I was naive, a naked spring, a raw nerve of a thing. That cannot ever be me, I knew. Sadness swept in gently like a Moscow thaw. It is no simple thing, looking into a woman's vast soul and seeing its foot bindings. Now, in Italy divorced with my skin singed off, when I say I don't love him mean: I have succeeded at feeling nothing most days and it mostly works. Do you want the comfort of Nothing? Do you want Nothing, too? Be warned: you'll never be free, even when you are nothing. Here is what doesn't work: Accepting the stages of grief. Talking about it. Sitting with the feeling. Missing him—no, the person you were when you believed in death do us part. Writing poetry. That, too. When I say I don't love him I mean: I feel capsized in an endless, starved tide. What sometimes works: selective memory. You must forget ripe tomatoes and his beard and feeling perfectly sheltered in a big blue world. Forget coffee in bed, laughter watching TV, blowing out the candles on the birthday cake and the quiet all-encompassing knowledge that you are chosen. Remember only how love turned to a banal everyday survival act, a trapeze act unsure whether he will catch you, how the warmth stagnated and became sour, remember the foot bindings and remember the resentment boiling in your veins as you stick it out for the kids. Six-hour Netflix binges help, too. A man's fingers tracing your spine. Frozen pizza at 2 a.m. Random trips to the museum just to stand near things that last a while. The realization that crying won’t change anything. Seeing that life is just a dream, and refusing to participate in your own suffering. Bite your fist. Walk on eggshells around joy. When I say I don't love him, I mean he didn’t break my heart, he just stopped touching it and it forgot how to beat right.
By Ella Bogdanovaa day ago in Poets
Comments (2)
Dear Ms. Marsha: I'd 'Wander' off even with a G.P.S. attached. I'm so glad that I've just discovered your marvelous StoryTelling. *As I scroll through them I've subscribed with pleasure - So terrific and a rarity to see 'Original' stories of late among the snippers with sharp scissors. It is so incredible how these poems of yours seem to just flow out of you. I'm not a poet and I certainly know it, but I did "The Llama & Koala" with our VillageBucketMate, Kristen Balyeat, my only co-write; her perkiness shown within the story. I'm so impressed by you - there's nothing in your Bio? May I take a moment: I'm not a writer as you are. I'm just a retired legal professional; a simple StoryTeller to archive 'For the Kids Someday.' Not into contests or self promotion. I just enjoy doing my Silly Sketches to lead into my Shorts; nothing more. I will be following your offerings. Jk.in.l.a. Jay Kantor, Chatsworth, California 'Senior' Vocal Author - Vocal Village Community
What beautiful visuals!! ❤️ I could really go for a wordless wander 🥰