Anchorage: the desire to hold on to time as it passes, feeling the weight of the current against your chest while your elders float on downstream, calling over the roar of the rapids, “Just let go — it’s okay — let go.” — The dictionary of Obscure Sorrows
I have lived my life through my daughter’s eyes with fleeting consciousness.
A threadlike stream, in the sun, it gleamed with an itching wantonness.
Her first three words were three misheard cries of ‘mum’ and ‘dad’
and as she grew her mood went through happy, sad and mad.
I remember her hugs, soft-spoken love, she carried as she pranced.
In days of tears, through whispered smears, she took my hand and danced.
Into many years and pubescent fears, discontented with her parts.
She conquered her thoughts, got up and fought for the life that is her art.
A curse from time, like ageing wine, she was dipped in bronze smeared dust.
Her innocent soul, her wholesome smile, beguiled the world to lust.
A late summer bloom, where one man swooned and sealed her mouth with tape.
She hid in blame tearing pieces of shame for this act, I call it rape.
Her pain I bore, Her wounds were sore through no fault of her own.
With sleepless nights, a past that bites, a careless thought was sown.
And came the day, she rode away and she left my hand for good.
Like a fairy-tale, the ending failed and I was left misunderstood.
Lamented dreams, my yearning screams longed for those moments.
What could have been, what should have been — my time forever stolen.
I bring her flowers and think for hours sitting by her grave
of all the moments, my tiny tokens that in my heart I save.
I have lived my life through my daughter’s eyes with longing misery.
That I may feel, what I could not heal and re-write our history.
