Of How I Bit Back

“Death doesn’t frighten me. It’s what comes after. [Besides, some of my best friends are dead, and they hunger for stories].” ~ Terry Pratchett [and me]

 

My world remains full
of what you left me—bones
on my altar, books and stones,
the calaveras that grinned on my handfasting
cake (you weren’t here for that)

I miss you…

There are new things
on my altar and living—hearts
from friends, a bird skull
whose flesh and feathers fly
to you (its grin and bone
stay with me)

I miss you…

Newest, on my altar, wild offerings
for you—peanuts and (not so shiny) metal gifts
from a blue jay, leaves and petals and lavender
and rosemary from a witch made of gentle fire,
a shot of spirits (I will never forget)

I miss you…

The world remains full of what you left me, but
there are new things on my altar and living—
life bit, bit, bit… chunks out of my chest, but
I’m fighting, fighting, fighting back…

next year, when The Veil thins
again, when Soul and Flesh get to glimpse
into each other’s mirrors, I’ll share new
stories, Little Brother, of how I bit back,
of how I won, of how I’ll always remember

I miss you…

 

the wee notes…
– last night, I spent a considerable amount of time cleaning the altar where I keep my Little Brother’s ashes, listening to his favorite music, speaking the tales of everything of importance (or trivial but humorous) that has happened to me this year. It’s how I’ve celebrated the life of my Dead for as long as I can remember, how I will add to their memory for a long as I breathe.

 

Meaning Well Isn’t Good Enough

“Warning, my love,” he says, his tone a soothing dance between dark humor and unease, “They’ve given me fresh corpses.”

I reach for the bouquet, sighing when the plastic shroud crackles against my open palm. “They mean well,” I say, kissing his mouth, looking into eyes that mirror my own in thinking, Meaning well isn’t good enough.

To the sacrifice, I whisper, “Wilt gently, darlings, I will preserve your bones.”

I wonder, wonder…
if cut flowers ever think
of dying for love

 

 

the wee notes…
– I don’t cut flowers I’m not going to eat or use for some sort of remedy. Since my Piano Man knows this, he tries to let people know so that they won’t present them as gifts after shows. When all fails, and people insist in showing their love for music with a bit of death, I dry the flowers, keep them for a while… before giving them back to the dirt.
– linked to Poets United.

 

Mad and Stormy and Cackly

I should have suspected that reading dark and delicious poesy to March was not the best of ideas. I mean, I was certain that a month stuck between the nippiness of winter and the not-yet-bloomy spring would yearn for dark and spooky. Well, I was wrong and then some… the moment I read T.S. Eliot’s
“April is the cruellest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain”
March smirked creepily and began storming like crazy. I saw little sense in arguing with a month known for its madness, so… I slipped into something warm (about 13 layers, since I’m a complete coward when it comes to cold weather) and accompanied my Piano Man on a walk.

Can you see him in the darkness of my eyes, keeping me warm?

We were out for about an hour. This is a big deal for me. If you’ve been following my health bitching saga, you already know that this is my first time playing in the cold since the winter of 2013… when my lazy immune system rebelled and decided that keeping me warm was too much work to bother with. Today, um… yesterday, I guess, we made stag snow angels… and cackled in the woods like the deliciously terrifying maniac we can be.

I’ve never cared much for snow. My sexy Caribbean blood doesn’t mix well with the cold. But 5 years kept from jumping wildly all over the fluffy stuff left me longing for half-frozen toes (I could promptly defrost in a hot bath). Also, I think bare branches look freaking pretty dressed in the last of winter.

I should find some bright verses to appease March. Some Swinburne? “March, master of winds, bright minstrel and marshal of storms that enkindle the season they smite…” Um, mayhap not Swinburne *cough*.