Unburdening

Too many things lie between us,

quivering, quaking in

darkness

like silence, or a laugh being shoved

back down your throat.

I press my cheek against the top of your head, your hair

burning with the fidgeting fingers of the sun, listening

to words that have no shape, or sound,

or feel,

just words that sit like fat potatoes

between me and you,

words that build up like gum under

school desks and surround you.

Tendrils, thin wispy letters, dig their way through

your skin, overgrown bean plants.

Everytime I try to pull one down, they

rip at your skin and you cry out.

Your silence floats like a feather, suspended

below my mouth; when I speak

it flutters with the fluctuations of my voice.

Too many things hold us at a distance,

two lone figures across each other,

toes at the edge of

a seemingly uncrossable gap.

I heave stones into the darkness, my hand tight

around yours,

placing trust and love and faith and understanding

like stepstones climbing steadily to the surface,

so that I wait until the pathway is completed

until you dissolve the walls of words snaking through your skin

until I hold you close and you finally fit,

reborn in my arms.

For anyone who has read Room by Emma Donoghue, this poem was for an English project where Grandma addresses Ma after Ma has finally escaped