Ring

 

Ring

We circle back

to this sore

spot, over and

over, finding

myriad, bare-

knuckled ways

of saying

what’s

wrong.

We get so

creative,

we forget

the

point.

Look,

I’m in

your

corner.

Give me

a hand,

not your

fist.

Image: The New York Public Library on Unsplash (Louisiana, 1938, Photo by Lee Russell)

April 15, 2021

#NaPoWriMo2021 No. 15

Zoom

Zoom

For five minutes

I was talking

to your ceiling.

There was

nowhere else

to look.

You said:

anywhere else

but here.

I don’t know

how to do it

how to

break down

my breath

and take

the next one

how to dig

beyond the

bottom

how to

say the next

thing and

the next

All I

know

is this

moment,

listening

to this

talk of

heaven

not seeing

your face.

Just stay

on the

line

please.

Image: Alexander Andrews on Unsplash

April 8, 2021

#NaPoWriMo2021 no. 8

Arena

 

Arena

I would rather not say

Let me finish

I’m not done

I can’t

Then you

do it

I would rather

have this

than breathe

in the air from

a chasm

of regret.

So fight me.

Stay here

where I can

see you.

Image: Jesiel Rubio of Unsplash

April 6, 2021

#NaPoWriMo2021 no. 6

What I didn't ask for

 

What I didn’t ask for

It was so clear,

what I was going

to say. It was

going to build

a bridge, or

at the very least,

a footpath,

no matter how

rickety.

But this is

what happened.

I put a foot,

I don’t know

whose anymore,

in my mouth

or in my ear

because I couldn’t

really hear you

as my heart

shouted: but

make this work!

And of course

it didn’t.

I just want

you to know,

you said.

And I tried

so hard to

scoop it up

with trembling

hands

but then

I lost

it.

Image: Markus Winkler of Unsplash

April 5, 2021

#NaPoWriMo2021 no. 5

Green

Green
by Justine C. Tajonera

Mr. Ying, our consultant, always signed his documents
with green ink. It was as distinctive as the bold strokes
of his signature itself. I bought myself a green pen
today. And as I write I think of newly cut grass and
the sap encrusted leaves of mango trees and the line of
water near the beach that borders the darkness of deep
water and the long stretch where you can wade and the
crinkly looking seaweed that are in abundance in May.
I think of your birthday which is today. Maybe
I should have written on your card in green. There
won't be a reply. I know it already. So, I should
have written in the color of stalks, hopeful for
the blooming of flowers.

Message

  
by Justine C. Tajonera


Telling you this
is so important.
The bridge is so 
tentative,
tenuous,
it is hardly
there. 
What you will 
say 
will shake it
to its
foundation.
But I'm crossing
over to you,
anyway. 


I'm crossing over,
I'm crossing over.
Please meet me
there.
Please wait. 


Information on the picture: Old wooden bridge.
  © Copyright Hefin Richards and licensed for reuse under this Creative Commons Licence.

A Walk in the Sun

by Justine C. Tajonera

I don't know why
I couldn't have just
told you
that I didn't want
to walk
in the scorching
sun.

Why I saved my words
so that I could
throw them at
you like so
many flaming
arrows
escapes
me.

I can imagine
what it might have been
like if I had
saved you
the trouble.

But truly,
I relished my
smoldering silence
and expected you
to suffer the
heat of your
guilt.

I cannot undo
the burn.
Here is
my poor attempt
at a balm:

I lay down
my arms.
I'm tired of
my fevered struggle
to be
right.

 for Vier
(April 1, 2010)
 Image from http://www.flickr.com/photos/jimdollar/1696429634/

Wonder

By Justine C. Tajonera

Wonder is surprisingly easy
to kill.
A word, a look, a gesture
could dismiss
something beautiful,
something new.

There was something
about what you said
that was resplendent with
love
and I did not
listen.

When you point your hand
to the moon
sometimes I don't see it
the way
you do.

Cover my eyes with
your hands.
I loved how I finally
heard what
you were saying
this morning
after I gave up
correcting
you.

(Feb. 26, 2010)
Image of crescent moon with Venus from http://www.nasaimages.org/luna/servlet/detail/NVA2~4~4~4017~104543:Moon-And-Venus-Share-The-Sky

Offense

by Justine C. Tajonera

Deep, dark, scarlet
shame shrouded me
the whole afternoon
after realizing a
mistake.

From everywhere,
it snakes into the littlest
gestures: setting a
schedule, writing,
eating.

No, I am not like
this,
I am not in-
considerate.

I go into the anatomy
of the offense,
offering excuses,
shuddering at my
inadequacies,
useless exercises.

I take it apart
and see it for what
it is,
I see the broken
mechanism
(for so often, I pretend
it is not
there)
and I offer up my
culpability
without the cyclic despair
of self-blame.

And the miracle of
a blank slate
is mine
to claim.

(Jan. 20, 2010)
Image from http://www.flickr.com/photos/tinou/92858032/

Ghosts

By Justine C. Tajonera

In the aftermath, the walls
were stripped of the framed
photographs,
small mementos
that no one would
have recognized
are replaced
or gone.

This is the landscape
of things gone
wrong,
slowly,
agonizingly
so.

Any of these banisters,
door frames,
linen and
furniture,
stand for
something.

Something now lost,
irretrievable.

This place retains
its frame,
but it is a battlefield,
an emptiness,
a page excruciatingly
rubbed raw

and now blank.

(Dec. 20,  2009)



Image from http://www.flickr.com/photos/clanlife/247395827/

Just Say The Word

by Justine C. Tajonera

It used to be
that you would
just say the word
and I would be
broken.

Time has muffled
the screech of
my fears
but when they come
back
they are
deafening.

I used to think

that being with you
was like
hanging on
to the sharp side
of  a blade.

That was the problem:
that I was
hanging
on
at all.

Enough.

I just need to say
the word
and I
will be
healed.

(Nov. 24, 2009)


Image is of a display of naval dirks (long daggers) at The Maritime Museum of the Atlantic in Halifax, Nova Scotia from http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Navaldirks.jpg by user Matthew Vanitas.

A Proper Isolation

by Justine C. Tajonera

There are wounds that I cause
because I'd rather
have the veneer of acceptability
than face my inadequacy.

How often have I kept
a smile on my face
rather than break down
in tears
or drop to the floor
out of sheer
exhaustion?

How often have I
berated my own child's
irrepressible bursts
of energy
to keep a room quiet
for strangers?

Why is it that
I would rather suffer
than tell you how
I feel?

We are all side by side,
wounded and
wondering why
we have not
reached
out.

I'm here,
I'm here.

I am wrenching myself
from the cage
of my own convenience.

Here is my

hand.

(Nov. 9, 2009)

Image from www.laurentbrouat.com