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“You cannot have it,” my mother said as thing displayed itself in glory and in arrogance.
The thing that was a solution to want.
The thing, a toy, a trifle an adolescent idol,
Was all I needed to be happy.
Look away said my eyes,
As they burned with desire and dried
From staring
And glaring
And hoping.
“You cannot have it,” said the voice of my mother that is there when she is not.
The recording,
Of the warnings,
Of life, loss and strife.
That in youth sounded like knives—
And cut my spirit.
But… now cuts the loneliness when I hear it.
Back then I looked upon it like Lot’s wife,
Salted and Immobile
For a memory of a dream
That never was.
But, I played it back— just because…
I wanted it to be true.
I stole it. Youth makes you fearless like that.
I stole it because I envisioned it into possession,
I carried that idea until obsession.
And, my imagination kept me going for 20 odd years.
Believing I would return,
With all I had earned,
And finally carry it home.
Not enough.
Never enough.
“You cannot have it,” I tell myself.
And it hurts again.
And, anew… and even more.
Because I have no youth to steal it,
And no vision to manufacture a fraud
Or a totem or tinker.
Just an echo and a warning,
And a memory of disappointment,
And longing— for a longing.
