Holes throughout the body—
a syndrome of the past.
Light as a feather,
I float through the lapse.
All the actresses and actors
that push me to perform, get paid—
while the silence of a clever one
avoids this house of blame.
I’m alone when I call you.
I don’t want more shame.
I’m driftwood washing on the shores
of a land called Never-Clean.
Can you help me become new again—
sand me down and stain the pain?
I’m a hollowed human of useless, unkept, selfish rage.
“It’s not that deep—not the deep end,”
said one shallow mate.
They never knew I’d touched the soil
that’s damp and cold— infinite.
“She’s so dramatic.”
emotions—lymphatic—
They drain and drain again.
I’ll be the one, light as driftwood,
from wounds where nails drove in.
Is there any cure for the rot
within this flesh, beneath this skin?
Refurbish me.
Let me live again.
Make me the centerpiece
from that angry river’s end.
Showcase the beauty
of this damage eating in.
She pleads—
“Take me, make me yours,”
as the storm begins to end.
⸻
“This here is an heirloom,”
weathered, rough, reclaimed.
“A simple reminder of the power of potential.
Grandpa found it along the river,
after the great storm—
that same summer he met Grandma
as she ran away.
This is no ordinary driftwood.
The holes carry a whistle
that sings our family’s name.”
We all share the potential to be reclaimed, in love and life.
