By Gail Taylor
Well, my love, what have you left me with?
Could it be your collection of gatherings-
the antique car that doesn’t run,
an extra motor just in case
die-cast cars and trucks,
coins of unknown value,
or that amazing array of bolts, nails and screws
stored indiscriminately in cans and jars.
Perhaps it is the puddle of motor oil
you never got around to cleaning up.
Sitting here sifting through the clutter,
I suddenly found what you have left me with
It is not the wounded girl
the one in me you rescued
from the memories of an attack
the betrayal of a sick old man’s desires
the girl you nourished to a new passions
removed the years of senseless guilt
by convincing her it was okay to giggle
even in the throes of making love;
the one who you gathered up
with all her years of reproach and blame
and gently nurtured to become a woman
No, looking back I know I always wondered
could there, would there be a time,
as you and I aged, when he would return
and I would smell him in your smells
see him in your eyes…feel only his groping hands;
there could have been no wound greater
than to look at your aging features
and somehow see him reflected there.
The legacy that you have left me with, my love
What I found amid the clutter
that I didn’t know was there
What you have really left me with
Is the answer to my question
I will never need to know.
I selected this poem for publication in the next issue of Quinte Arts Council's tabloid
Umbrella. This is such a powerful poem that I decided to post it on my blog as well.
Apologies to Gail for the change in layout - my system wouldn't accept her far more
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