Messy Roots & Disappearing Act

Photo by Lawrence Aritao on Unsplash

Messy Roots

Since I was small, 
I’ve always been 
The one, come spring 
To do the weeding,
To pull the insipids,
Spare the blooms, 
And set them in a bed, 
Afresh.

Untangle any 
Messy roots 
So the pests can’t sprout 
Yet again. 
 
So I’m not sure 
Why it came a shock 
That I would be tasked to 
Untangle my own 
Messy roots. 
 
Years and years 
Of planting,
And replanting,
And transplanting.
With no regard 
For the bed 
In which now I must lay. 
 
I set to work 
In the silvery sun 
On a Sunday dawn.
Knotted and gnarled 
Stubborn roots
Impossibly entwined- 
No shears 
Could possibly spear.
 
And helplessly
I wonder: 
Is this history- 
This rooting-
Even worth the hassle? 
A mess like this, 
Of this magnitude 
Could only be 
A mistake. 
A darkness too deep 
To dismantle alone. 
 
Breath heaves from my chest 
As sweat beads my brow 
And messy roots-
Brimming with beetles 
Best handled with gloves
To guard myself. 
 
As I rake through my regrets,
Prune and parse what I can of my pride,
And my happiness catches on the wicked 
Thorny tips of my own 
Distrust.
And still,
I am not strong enough for these 
Stubborn stems. 
 
So here I sit.
Armed instead 
With these striped pages 
And a simple black script.
Because though these blackened, mottled,
The messiest of roots may be strong, but
I must be stronger still 
And still it must be done
To let the rot be 
Wrought into the light

---

Disappearing Act

I stand at the base
Of a lighthouse in old Salem.
Wandering turned to running, exploring to escaping.
The January wind off the water
Whips at my cheeks.
 
My rubber boots stumble uneasily
Over the slippery, worn rocks
of the jetty.
The air is cold and clear,
But the dark is cold and muddled.
The sea unrelenting,
Yet so sweetly inviting.
Like goes to like.
 
The water roils around the rocks,
And the spray soaks my toes,
Like the tears that fall from my cheeks
Salt to salt,
Like goes to like.
 
I stare at the water,
And the air is ripped from my lungs, as I drown
In the urge to slip beneath the icy surface:
To find clarity in the frigid waters
To feel something, anything, at last.
There is no saving a soul that’s
Already half drowned.
This is it-
My very last
Disappearing Act.
 
I can already see the numbness in my red, blistered fingertips.
 
But I have been numb for a while now.
Like goes to like.