Saturday, September 14, 2013

I Wish for the Impossible

Today I wander past store fronts,
Lost in faces,
And in my own clothes.
I wish for impossible things:
Wishing, would you believe, to stroke
The throat of a unicorn?
Wishing for the touch of your fingertips on my face
Without having to remind you
How that tenderness is the highest height.

I am lost today.
My body is hurting
And my grandfather's death
Has left me on a lonely ship
Churning confusion in its wake.
It leaves me seeing faces, set like dominoes,
His as the catalyst tilting forward.
I will live to see them all fall down.

My grandpa died on Friday last.
A polarizing figure in our family. I'm wading through my own sorrow and wrote this while wandering.


  1. I'm glad that in the second stanza you shifted from the somewhat ethereal feel of the first stanza and brought the poem into the real world, providing a bridge for the two sets of emotions to mingle and find some common ground. This is what I always hope to see more of when perusing poetry blogs, but seldom do.

    My condolences.

  2. Exceptional writing ! Relative to all! Sincerely Deborah

  3. especially admire this:

    "dominoes/his is the catalyst tilting forward"

    wishing you peace in your turmoil. ~ M

  4. The people in our lives make a huge compact just by living in proximity. The gap in the world when they are gone is quite palpable. I'm very sorry for your loss.

  5. This is a beautiful expression of grief and loss. "Wishing, would you believe, to stroke
    The throat of a unicorn?" for me is that longing of the impossible... , too, am so sorry for your loss.

  6. Thank you, Toads, for your sincere comments/condolences.

  7. First, I'm so sorry about your loss... even when the person is a "polarizing figure," there is still that empty hole.

    Your thought of his being the first tilt in a long line of dominoes... I wondered whether the other dominoes where people or memories. Either way, it works for me, as my bad memories did indeed fall, one by one. Wishing you peace, Amy