by Kimberly Crocker
By Kimberly Crocker
She dissolved from the feet up,
vanishing in surreptitious bites like those
taken by children when no one is looking.
The strokes had crushed bits of her armor, too,
leaving an opening but taking her voice.
An unfortunate trade.
I think she loved me.
But, then, she kept her thoughts
hidden in a martini glass amongst the olives.
And, when thrown, her splintered words
made quick, painful cuts.
The tender pain of witnessing
a mother’s last moments, with
loose ends dangling like paralyzed limbs,
her intentions noosed and strangled.
So stilled, was she. Eyes glazed, unblinking,
murmuring to the corners of the room in
a bargaining for moments,
her light eclipsed by a pale shadow that
lengthened as her sun set.
She eased out of her body with a sigh–
A resigned, gentle disrobing, so as not to disturb.
Her calling card, a silence that smothered and
hung in the room, thick with regret and
the weight of words unspoken.
October 12, 2018
About the Author:
Kimberly Ferris Crocker is a recovering financial expert, a diplomat, a writer, a dancer, and a seeker. She began writing poetry in 2015, after the sudden death of her younger brother. Grief shattered her reality, and in doing so, created an opening for something greater to enter. In the last four years, she has written over 100 poems and is working on her story of spiritual awakening. This is her first published work. Kimberly lives in Chevy Chase, Maryland with her husband, two children, and a small menagerie of animals: Panamanian cat, a Spanish dog, and a cat from DC.