THIRTY SEVEN
Dolores Maxwell.com
 
Recognition

by
Saoirse Maxwell

Cecil Maxwell's black eye, February 01 2005. From private collection, used by permission. You do not look and see,
gaze upon the bloodied walls within you.
You fear the fist, the bloodied nose.
The carnage.
Because you do, it returns time and time again.
Seeking. Nudging. Burrowing.
Shrieking for solace.
It will not cease until you become brave my friends.
Grab the demon by the horns.
Dig deep. Deep within.
There, rooted and steadfast,
is that which helped child endure, survive.
That took courage, took Herculean strength.

Somewhere buried deep it lies in hope,
Begging for flight. Its right to be.
Love?
Love that which survived.
Parent, nurture that which was torn asunder.
Because if you do, I promise a flower filled garden.
Laden with friend, fauna and life.
The past sifted with present,
in the clay of your garden,
will flourish.
As it should my friend.
As it should.

Take that broken child by the hand.
Look it in the eye.
Remind it of its immaturity, its vulnerability.
Let it grieve as adult that which it hasn't.
Lost child.
Broken child.
Battered child.

Let the two merge –
Strength with strength
To fully live the life you were meant to.

I had no choice in my journey – maybe you too.
I have not wanted these paths fraught with hate, toxins
and venom.
Neither have I sought a cause or mission.
I just cannot bear the suffering, the battered shells of life
that deserve to bloom.
Their perfumes soothe and calm the deep dark waters.

You huddle childlike, clutching shame that isn't yours.
Take my hand.
Let child and adult reunite.
I won't let go.
Hand.
Nor path.

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