Tool

She remembers the day she first learned
to use a screwdriver.

She sat there with her brother
as he explained the mechanics of it
and warned her to be careful.

“A screwdriver is not something to be taken lightly,” he said.
“It’s a powerful piece of machinery
and if you don’t take proper precautions,
it could have serious consequences.”

Although he knew she could handle herself,
he worried about her, wanting her to be safe.

He had explained everything in depth,
how it works,
where you’re hands go,
how to take precautions.

He had taught her everything she’d need to know,
but he wouldn’t be there with her
when she decided to use it.

Her mother was always good at this stuff,
but her mom was gone now and her brother
was the only one she trusted
on matters such as
screwdrivers.

In My Eyes

You kill the bees,
But it’s not for me.
You were looking for something
To take your anger out on.

You tend my wounds,
But only because you have to,
Not because you love me.
Never because you love me.

I am in and out of trouble.
You seem to care,
But seeming is not actual
And you bail me out because it’s your job.

You cook me dinners.
You buy me clothes and provide my shelter,
But it’s not because you love me.
It’s because you have to.

I hold a yellow hand in my palm,

nearly lifeless
except for the intermittent pulses.

I stare at the figure on the bed and
my stomach clenches.
I am staring at the face of an old man.

I can hear his breathing,
ever so softly, but still a small comfort to me.

Reluctantly, I turn my head to the conversation around me.
The next instant,
I hold a cold, lifeless hand.

Sobs wrench my stomach, but no tears fall.
They tell me it’s time to leave,
to go home, but I know no home without him.

I want to remember everything about him:
his moustache that I can never remember
him being without,
His hair: he always had to have it just perfect.
His crooked lips that used to smile at me.
And I want to remember his crippled arm and leg,
which I always saw as perfect.

I run my hand from head to foot,
palm to palm, to feel his smooth, sick
flesh one last time.
I kiss his cool cheek and gaze into
the one eye my father left open for me.

Silence

If I could meet Him,
what would I say?
My ordinary problems
would seem trivial
in His Presence.
Introducing myself
would be redundant
to the All-Knowing.
Telling him
of the love I give
wouldn’t quite seem right
to the All-Loving.
What do you say
to the Man
Who knows
everything?
How do you act?
Would we just stand there
staring at each other
Knowing?