DIANE M. LABODA
Edges
I am living a life on the edge,
on the edge of everything—life,
sanity, grief—always grief.
The edges are slippery. Holding on
is tenuous at best. Letting go
of you is unthinkable every day.
Yet, I know I have to let go of
so many things—people, friends,
my lover, perhaps a brother in the ICU.
This is what the living do. They let go
of kisses, of letters, of long walks
through the woods, of the everyday.
Today the everyday has very sharp edges.
It’s hard to approach my recent cancer
diagnosis without wondering
how to let go of a lifetime of days
I know I’ll never see, how to let go
of vigor and embrace fatigue and less-ness.
I am living on an edge that keeps
moving back and forth along an
uncertain continuum—
the one that says “live” on one end
and “die” on the other, that used to
seem so far away in shadows, but no longer.
I know that not every long year belongs
to me alone, not every fractured day,
only what drops in from the universe
is mine for now, if I recognize it,
see it for what it is, like this poem.
Otherwise, it will slip through
my fingers and be gone, spilled
over the edge of today, landing hard, perhaps,
on the edge of tomorrow.
---
Prayer
A mist clings in wisps to the fence line.
One large oak stands sentinel as if permission
to enter the inadmissible is needed.
It looks from outside the tree line
to be frightening, foreboding, a singular
canopy, dark and unfamiliar.
As I enter, I can see the oak
captures each ray of light available,
magnifies it, sparkles it through every leaf.
Every sound, every movement,
every moment is symbolic, multi-layered.
It is as if the world is kept out on purpose.
It keeps no art, no altar, no ornaments,
no light or flame. Sound bounces off
the trunk and echoes until it fades away.
What’s left is the solemn, simple
presence of shadows.
A soft rustling, mesmerizing
and hypnotic, swoops and swirls on the air
and enters me, embraces me.
Contentment washes over me and I feel
welcomed.
I wait, I wait, but what for?
Oak sighs an invitation to reinvent
myself, to leave the past behind.
Its glowing silhouette is filled with
shifting molecules. The air is fresh and feels
as though I’m breathing in a prayer.
---
Whispers and Shadows
I live between layers of whispers
and shadows, stuck in a
nether land of what’s not said
and what’s not heard.
What’s not said can brim a bushel
with angst and longing.
What’s not heard floats by on
a wing and a prayer.
The question of which layer comes first
is like asking about the chicken or the egg.
Do we whisper in the shadows? Or
do the shades mute our voices, steal
our thoughts?
Some days start out like any other,
but degrade into talking-to-the-hand.
Clouds gather, breezes chill, tongues
tie mid-word, curiosities abound, thoughts
pool on the floor.
Other days begin in a cloud, stricken
by silence, darkened to full gray by noon.
Walls close in, emotions shutter, quarrelling
under their breath and punching
each other in the gut.
Healing comes slowly, layer-by-layer—
whispers, shadows, whispers, shadows—
no words, silence, darkness, unease.
It leaves me wanting more, fearing less,
expecting different from each precious day.
I know no other way forward
through silence, through darkness,
but to put one foot ahead of the other and listen
for the sound of footsteps. And to have faith
that tomorrow the sun will shine,
somewhere.
---
“Lengthening Shadows” Post #12: Three Poems by Diane M. Laboda
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