Erased

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

As schoolchildren,

we jockeyed for the prized job

of erasing the blackboard.

 

With broad, sweeping strokes,

sentences analyzed and diagrammed,

mathematical proofs,

and the teacher’s name

would be wiped away.

A fresh start, so to speak,

so our learning could begin anew

the next day.

 

Before dry erase boards

came into fashion,

eliminating the need

to clap erasers outside,

creating big clouds of chalk dust

was a treat at the end of the day.

Better yet, if one were skilled,

you could spell the name of your latest crush

on the bricks outside the classroom

with lines of eraser tracks.

 

As adults,

our chalkboards are more sophisticated

and erasing a less enjoyable activity.

 

With broad, sweeping strokes,

words and feelings analyzed,

prior proof of love,

and your lover’s face and name

can be wiped away

in an instant;

with the click of a mouse,

blocking a phone number,

marking an e-mail address as spam.

A fresh start, so to speak,

so a new courtship can begin anew

in time.

 

Erased.

Gone.

As if it never mattered

but I know better.

 

I know the erasure

is your way of creating

a brick wall,

marked with the name of

your love though it is,

so you don’t have to see what you lost.

Because it doesn’t take

mathematical proofs

or rocket science

to know you would still want to.

 

~ Mk Michaels, 2015

How in the World?

She stares at the void

asking the silence,

How in the world? 

How in the world

do I … ?

but her voice trails into nothingness.
Fighting against the muscles
drawn tightly across her breasts

she struggles to inhale. 

Snapshot images

from the past year and half

flood her tear-blurred eyes.

Happier moments burst like

bubbles settling on prickly grass.

How in the world? 

Who was right and who was wrong

hardly matter to her.

In the wake of five minutes,

maybe ten,

that changed everything,

the life she’d been trying so hard to build

evaporated.

How in the world? 

The basics of sleeping and eating,

now impossible,

are luxuries she only remembers

as distant memories.

She knows she needs rest;

she has for a long time now and

not eating will take its toll,

but how in the world? 

Tomorrow, the sun will rise.

She will be there to greet it,

likely having waited for it for hours,

and rise up, struggling though she may,

to make a single cup of coffee

and the slice of toast she won’t

know how to eat. 

~ Mk Michaels, 2015

This piece has appeared on Elephant Journal: http://www.elephantjournal.com/2015/06/how-in-the-world-a-poem-about-loss/

 

The Silence After

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

When an end occurs,

a deafening silence usually follows.
The pleasant sounds which filled each day
Disappear abruptly.
 
Silence.
 
The silence is an assault to ears accustomed
to hearing the sounds of joy;
soft voices,
gentle breathing from the other side of the bed,
the sound of water lapping the shore,
the din of children,
the frequent I love you’s.
 
Stillness.

One would think stillness in the wake of such

chaos
would be a relief and yet it is
not.
Instead, the quiet scrapes my skin raw
and, because I can hardly breath,
relaxation is unattainable.

 

Pleasant sounds will return in time,
but they will be mine instead.
It will be my own soft voice I hear.
I will move to the center and fill my own bed.
I will seek water and listen as it washes ashore.
I will welcome the clamor of children into my home, mine and many from other mothers
In time, I will tell myself I love you. 
Often.

Because with or without you, I still need to hear those words.

 

~ Mk Michaels, 2015

This poem has been published on elephant journal http://www.elephantjournal.com/2015/06/the-silence-after-poem/