CREMATION
The fact that the papers say that domestic abuse of men is not talked about almost means, of course, that it is now talked about!
I once spent some time with someone who I loved very much. She changed my life for the better. Many people tell me what she did was abusive but relationships are far more than the blunt descriptions that lead to condemnation.
I was not the best of partners; almost mute, working too hard, drinking too hard, dependant; often in hospital. It would have been hard to be with me and harder still when the remains of the love I had for that person left me. I still think it was almost criminal; the way I let that person down.
Maybe that is my contribution to this subject; that certainties about right and wrong are often doubtful.
But the legacy still remains: Just as in this poem, about domestic abuse; she still visits me and though I am now in the sort of loving relationship I never realised was remotely possible; her face and her voice of condemnation still appear to me, briefly, whenever I talk to my partner in my mind. I do not know how to rid myself of her judgement or her condemnation of my happiness. I wish that I could.
CREMATION
My ex is lovelorn, I hope I am just lonely.
My heart is shrouded with a bitter smelling mist.
Scree scatters down the mountain; nearly overwhelms me. I am indeed lonely here.
My throat so tight, I scarcely breath,
My jaw so clenched at night I think my teeth will break.
I yearn for beauty; the amber glow of the sun among the leaves.
I wish for the bright snow drift of sparkles on a winter’s day.
I wake in the dark debris of night
In the gap of my waking dream, you and my son come to me, visit me.
I see you every night in my sleep, you talk to me; we laugh.
In the morning I am furious that I can’t keep you away.
Once I lived with joy, held you, breathed with you.
Once I cuddled my son, held his hand, told him stories at bedtime.
I ache with the weight of rough, shod armour, the bluff surprise of memory.
You sought me with your voice, your tears, your arms but I had gone.
I left with the whirling wind, the scattered leaves.
I was the spray of the sea, the salt drip of rain streaming down my face.
I was the shriek of the wounded wind, the last gasps of a poisoned fox.
The crown of a cloud of thunder that insists on electric freedom.
The furious blows, the screams, the grey accusations, the overturned tables, the sting of whisky and wine. The glower of a face that rejects love and yet professes devotion. The food on the floor; the glasses shattered on the wall, the cooker flaming with spilt spirit.
Desperation that kicked and punched; rejected and still refused to let go.
From shuddering mouse to growling lion I escaped; ran and blazed unearthly with freedom. I lit up, grew blind with anger; fled a love that lived with hatred.
There is no release; I seek joy, remember the silence of my son that echoes into my daydreams, the vicious hands of your love that would never let go.
At night I sweat; my hair grows lank with night terrors; my mouth dries out.
I ache for the sweet release of the brief slice of razor blades.
I want it to stop; my life is one of bewildered shame. Why did you do this to me?
Where is the balm of a soft mind that learns to giggle again and trust the soft falling leaves; that can close its eyes; to open them again to the wonder of real life fairy tale dreams?
2009, adapted 2021
(Photo: The woods above Helensburgh. Jan 2021)
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