11 pm: my mother's kitchen

soft yellow light glows from
where it hangs on a spnning fan
and creeps out from around the corner
of the wall
streaked with light streaming from a computer screen
spilling onto the tile
and rolling across the countertops.
the only sound is silence,
stirred by low mechanical humming
that no one can hear anyway
for necessity of selective hearing.

she steps barefoot around the corner
following the lines on the tile to the
mug on the stove,
steaming,
the hint of a teabag hanging
arbitrarily over the rim.

she is humming.
oval rimmed glasses,
and thin bronze strands frame
high hollow cheekbones
and sienna lips.
hair falling onto strong lean shoulders
and weathered hands;
evidence of a mother
after nineteen years of carrying three children.

she moves in a sepia toned lullaby,
children sleeping soundly on the carpet
in the next room
exhaling her peace and sacrifice.
there is so much confidence and grace in her step,
so much to envy
admire
adore.

white ceramic tile creaks under wear and age
and the scent of tea leaves lingers
as the soft hum
and footsteps fade to
return from where they came,
trailing steam and grace
to hang and saturate the air
in the warm yellow light
that glows on the tile.

choke it out;
stalling
(fresh and unencumbered)
sinking, burdened, dismantled
i'll sing to you in warm, subtle vapors
rising from muted vocals under my breath.
the words hang on my lips
like beads of water
on a dry evening;
they drop and roll
smoothly down a soft fragile surface
but you begin to sputter
speechless
toneless__
nothing can exhale thoughts
like the smoke
from an old cigarette
that you tried too hard to keep burning
too long
while i sat and waited in disguise
behind the curtain.
go ahead.
figure me out;
pour me over coffee and dim orange light
in the middle of the room
where everyone can see
right there on the table-
you saw me dancing on the walls already
twisting and moving behind the michevious light
creeping in
from the window cracked open
across the room.
and what am i to do now?
(i stretch myself too thin)
maybe you've noticed by now.
the leaves are aching with cold
(but you only hear their agony when night falls
listless and tired)
searching for a burial of sorts
but not before i wake up from this perpetual lifeless dream
it smells like autumn
but i can't feel the insides of my soul anymore
;tangled in the sinews of
darling fading day
(my insides. i lied)
it's all too much for nothing.
crashing, mindless playtime
mulling over the drab hours of
grey time
to stop and continue a coherent process of thought
instead left to obstruct a mental airway;
stalling,
choke it out.

it stings
long and hard;
beautiful loss of words,
lifeless, speechless sorrow
trapped in the sinews of my heartache.
i prayed tonight for the first time in a long time.
i mourn as though i'm bound and bleeding.
we all seem to be stuck wandering
these streets full of loss-ridden premonitions
dueling with the grey hours as they
pass calmly through this
lost october day.
just between us;
it was muddied with tears
and hard to repair.
my voice still echoes in your head, i'm sure;
i'll say it all again as we sink
and accept things as they come,
grabbing on to God as we slide down
the slope of this snow covered embankment.
this distance is shrinking
as time passes
and we are left to mourn
in passing
beneath your brother's shadow.
and as it all fades into blessings
and flowers,
i'll still tell you
shame.
shame on you.

i can't walk this center aisle.

7.17.86.justin andrew nicholson.10.1.05
god bless.

shilouettes drip down the window like
raindrops
our intermittent voices
leave beads of honesty
lingering on the window panes
steal me
tip and spill
and leave me laying in a puddle
soaked with hidden memories and
tipped glasses
(all the broken pieces swept
carefully under the rug)
i step carefully
when i walk now.

silence drops and
we lie here now
as if we're the only
souls in the world
wrapped in these
plaid bedsheets
and subtle
contentment.