Rectify
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I cannot make this right
no matter how hard I try. You died with me mired in anger with you. And now you’re gone, and I don’t even remember what I was mad about. There is no redemption possible, for now there is nothing to redeem, nothing to purify, nothing to save, nothing except this swirl of shit I’m trying to slog through-- both yours leftover and mine. Most days I dissolve into it like a soldier hiding in a swamp from snipers of grief. To the outside world I look like a stock-straight hero in my dress-white uniform. They don’t know where I’ve been and what I’ve seen of life’s war destruction, of how bent you have to be to become one with death in order to wrestle some life out of the muck of human existence and the incomprehensible crucifixion that lies at the crux of it all. Somewhere in the struggle I got sucked in, though. I can’t drag myself up out of this primordial ooze. I need to be rectified, drawn up, washed off, clothed in my right mind, set right in whatever force of love resurrects us all past the pain. © 2012 Tess Lockhart. All rights reserved. |