Under the pomegranate tree

Pomegranate_Tree.gifIt’s 6:09
Mama?
Can you get my penguin pajamas?

It’s 6:10
Mama?
Can I have some water?

It’s 6:10 still
Wait for it…
Wait for it…
Mama?
Can you get my keychain?

It’s 6:11
Nobody is calling you
but you can’t think of anything to say

It’s 6:12
You have nearly polished off the red licorice

It’s 6:12 still
Mama?
Can you wipe me?

It’s 6:13
The number of commandments
and pomegranate seeds
All those shalts and shalt nots
that taught you not to get angry
taught you to sublimate your ego
for the greater good
taught you to keep the peace
serve and protect
All those seeds you water
by denying their existence
until you split the fruit in two
until you split the fruit in two

It’s 6:14
You know what they say
Seeing is believing
Yesterday you let it rip
in front of somebody else
for a change

It’s 6:14 still
and yesterday the storm cloud burst
right in your very own kitchen

It’s 6:15
No use pretending
or processing
No use posturing or postulating
not when your tears rolled in big rivulets
all the forbidden admissions
uncorked
all the lived-with omissions
the toll of tolerated conditions
exploding from within you
given the slightest permission to rant
to rave
a tirade of pent-up, good all the time,
measured, modulated, accommodating
lies

It’s 6:18
They’re out of the bath
Mama?
Can we have our movie time?

It’s 6:19
You finally said it out loud:
You want a wife
you want more money
to go to nice places to do nice things
You want something so other than any of these
but to be able to say such things
without

6:20
Mama?
Can I put my Thomas underwear on?
worrying about how that sounds
or what you should
or shouldn’t want
or how ungrateful it sounds to want something

It’s 6:20 still
Mama?
I can’t reach the handles!

For a few minutes yesterday
against the chill
of the unheated house
you felt real
and honest
free

It’s 6:21
Mama?
I love you.
I love you, too.

You stopped counting,
stopped keeping time.
And there was only this,
the eye of the storm, or the calm after.

Wrestle with me.
Open your fists.
Spill the seeds of the pomegranate
into my palms,
fight me
or weep
beat your chest
and tear your hair
and say all the things
you’ve suppressed for too long.

Then rest.
Rest here, under the weight
of warm blankets,
under the awning
of the tree of the truth
where the trust between us
is the ultimate safety.

Mama?
I’m hungry.
What can I have?
What can I have?

4 comments

  1. Jena,
    our blog posts drinking together could prove interesting.
    :)
    Thank you so much for your words – for so courageously sharing your life. Your words are so real, such a gift.
    thank you.
    Laurie

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