[Moira Speaks]: 641.The Futility of Trying to Reach the Dead (individual poem)

i watched her sit in the corner all alone
on that three legged stool
a broken empty glass in her hand
a melting milk moustache on her upper lip
a wet stain on her right thigh, straight through those jeans
and tiny drops of milk dribbling
to the puddle on the dark floor.

i did not know how to reach her
and i felt helpless
watching
knowing who it was that broke her glass
and spilt its fragile contents.

her staring, storm colored eyes are
filled with clear sadness
and my heart breaks within me.
the gulf between us is
immeasurable.

i look down, within, to the
golden locked up cage within my heart
the piece of me which
while still inside
has been torn away
locked up
to which the key has been lost.

there she is
staring up
at me, but not at me
through me
to what used to be.

somewhere that glass is whole
and the sparkling shards are not
scattered about like thin,
glinting, unattached cat whiskers
sad and hopeless and painful.

i sat in my own corner
in the dark
and felt filled up with regret.
the stool was hard and cold to the touch
rough and bumpy
and one of its three legs was wobbly.
she watched me
and lamented

as i cried for her.

so sorry
so late
so worthless
and
undoable.

she in her corner,
and i,
in mine.