It wasn’t like this the first time

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[poem I wrote about four years ago, the beginning relates to a traumatic birth and early hospitalisations at age 18 months and six years; image is from near Kiama]

It wasn’t like this the first time

you died. Then it was all soul ache
fusing gullet, heart. A waiting
grey hollowing out of cells. Walls,
barred windows, chemicals, things

so ugly, so deafeningly, there.
Your skin found no other but hard
hygienic surfaces, you nowhere,
time-impaled, entering world womb.

Still alone with all this, yet
space now timed with presence.
Bird call, leaf breeze, skull
contiguous with wide sky.

Waiting for nothing, something
separate & one with waiting.
Imminent, edged with a silence
woven with sounds. Open surfaces

shimmer simple depth obvious,
unknown. There’s a drawing inward,
seaward-pulling tide, poised
before breathing out, crashing in.

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~ by Peter Lach-Newinsky on August 16, 2013.

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