Every Hour
Every hour consumed
Each joy devoured
All hope destroyed
Every single living
Part of loves’ bones
Broken, beaten, burned
In the fist and flame
Of the madness she weds
The happy bride is she
Fucking on the bed
Of me, the dead
January 29, 1996
(desmond)
This one was hard to publish. I kept shuffling it to the back of the stack of loose-leaf papers. It’s difficult to imagine the depth of my parents’ pain. My father felt so isolated in caring for my mother and her madness that he was also on the brink. But, of course, this only represents one side of the story. Who knows what factors drover her, time and again, to stop taking her medication.
About Desmond and Poems Unrequited.
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