Wednesday, April 2, 2014

Daughter - NaPoWriMo 2/30

How's everyone's NaPoWriMo going so far? I had a rough one today, to say the least.

But, I eventually got something done, so I haven't failed just yet.

No prompt for this poem, unless you consider the Bible non-Grecian mythology (which you should assume I don't).

Anyway, with no further ado...

Daughter

Where did my daughter go?
This sallow thing disappearing into her bed,
blearing my vision with each glance of her
feebly rising chest,
is not the child I remember.
Her eyes,
12 years
piercing my heart with their carob gaze,
have sunken neath two pallid sheets
too leaden for aught but a flutter
as weak as the plea she croaks from tween
two cracked and sticky lips:
daddy…
And I crumble like ash.
Adonai,
do not make me bury my daughter.
She, no less a piece of my heart
than that mixture of earth and breath
you raised with a portion of yours.
I cannot
bury
my daughter.
I see my prayers have clawed furrows in the dirt.
Are fingers practicing that anguish
that would part me from her
…daddy…
But now, a name
more storm than whisper,
at which the resident blind and leprous
leap from their obscurity, paralytics fluxing
toward him on their draggled beds
and I
turn the sea's Pharaonic hunger,
a surge of saline and grief due east
to beg this Yeshua his namesake.
Every step,
those tremulous breaths
like flames beneath my heels.
                                                            …dad…
This man,
whose touch the grapevine draped in miracles.
Scarcely my daughter's name
stumbles off my tongue, when…no,
a familiar face comes running,
clad in sadness that needs no words
to douse my heart in gall.
My little girl…
The world melts around me,
but this Yeshua,
eyes like thawing bronze,
looks at me and says, do not worry…
just believe.
But my house harangues my sorrow
ere we even glimpse its mound,
a dozen voices bleeding means from out
my supine daughter.
Wailing…who can wail if not I?
Whose tears if not mine?
And as this thunder-voiced Yeshua
purrs two words into her tress, my eyes
resume their fount
for what my mind should not believe:
my daughter – she, the sun once sunk –
sits up and lilts to me,
                                                            Daddy!

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