I tried to mend the space
my knife eyes had slashed to ribbons
in their tense sweeping arcs
across the room
I soaked it in the russet soup
that floats behind closed eyes,
gave it permission to dissolve
and then re-form

The traffic ribbon cut,
in torturous red
through my psyche,
slow, intractable. I couldn’t
leave it

I tied a bow around my hopes and plans
and left them, only too aware
that any conscious effort on my part
to bring them to fruition
would have to fail.
I left them to be met
by some life force
larger and more precise
than my fumbling hands.

©Wendy Mulhern
November 21, 2014