the heart laid bare

Archive

The sixteenth
the curse
Under seige
Beyond the blues
Introspect
Balloon
push
a strange distance
SWIMMING ALWAYS DOWNWARD
A ONCE-FAMILIAR LANDSCAPE
No Apology
the thunder
tinder
VERBAL PORTRAIT OF A CAT OWNER
critical shortage
the sky we thought we knew
CIRCA SOLEM
almanac
baby
dearest orlando
FIVE MONTHS
A LETTER TO THE UNDESERVING
cactus heart
would we
the fall of giants
paradise lost
Dad
after you've gone
time
a smile from the eyes
trepidation
why so cold
fix this
swallow me
untitled 8
insular
cry alone
robin
quicksand
laces
D.I.S.C.
stripped
waving goodbye
your open eyes
enemy within
mortal
untitled 4
sleepless
OUTSIDER
untitled 9
come dream with me
in the face of adversity
one word
the dark of the night
untouchable
one and one makes two
you burn me
see me
this shaken core
my lover
helen
my room
his words
foolish
rita
chalk drawings
the longest night
stupid skeleton
CLOTHES MAKETH
FIRST LASTS
STELLAR
TODAY
I WATCHED A MAN DIE TODAY
THREE WEEKS
this slippery slope
untitled 5
Arrows
First Kiss
The Talk Of Love
Nicotine
Blackout

The sixteenth

It’s my dad’s birthday today.
More than two years since he went into the void,
There is nothing sweet about this sixteenth.
 
The quiet I have wrapped myself in is hot and oppressive about my shoulders,
Tangled around my legs like kelp around the feet of a drowning man.
I am blanketed in online silence, quite unwilling or unable 
To lay my hands upon a keyboard
And with two hesitant fingers type one reaching little tendril… 
“Hi.”
 
I would almost like the silence to swallow me whole;
I am burrowed so deep within its folds now
That, like a teenager rebelling against the alarm clock and the dawn,
I refuse to surrender its embrace,
Gripping its fabric tight around my face so that only my eyes and nose can peep out.
I only catch my breath in tiny gasps,
Afraid I might draw attention to my self-imposed vow of reluctant silence;
Afraid to draw challengers armed with small talk.
 
The longer a silence grows,
The heavier it becomes,
And divides the world into two types of people;
Those who must conquer it, 
Who reach out and say something, anything, to someone, anyone…
And those who feel it like a rising tide, huge and powerful 
And almost unnoticed until it breaks its banks and flows over your toes.
 

© mjc 16 January 2018

return to home

Biography

Daughter, sister, aunt, godmother, friend, public servant; self-confessed hermit, confirmed cat person, sporadic baker, irreformable yarncrafter, voracious reader; occasional wit, voluble shower vocalist, frequent sacrifice on the altar of brain-to-mouth filter fails, unrepentant purveyor of puns and dad jokes, writer and poet.

I have always lived by the theory that no matter what you do for a living - if you are compelled to write, if you wake up in the night to scrawl the contents of your dreams on a notebook beside the bed, if no event in your life seems complete without you recording it, if you are drawn to comment upon the world - then you are a writer.

These are my words.