G U R G L E

She caught her stare as the glanced in the mirror and not wanting to frighten the child she looked away. 

How much pain and sorrow the eyes can divulge she couldn’t be sure because her expertise hid in life’s exhaustion and exposing only the energy of dreams.  

Her arms were sore from babysitting hope and repeatedly un’swaddling her of persistent thought and sorrowful emotions.  She’d become estranged from contentedness while extolling his virtues and questioning his accessibility without a caravan of mourners, a final burial of regrets and Hallelujah playing as a backdrop to tears seemingly cued to the pallbearers march.

She refrained from allowing her eyes to reveal to the girl that she should familiarize herself with boxing gloves and the outlines of her shadow. Her eyes could never explain that those lines would restrict her freedom, be her greatest opponent and on some days her greatest friend and place of rest. 

She didn’t have a book to recommend that would walk her down the aisle of silence while entombing her in a ring of memories she could never be sure were hers or how the disorientation she would feel in the words marriage and divorce would cause her to swing everywhere but where it counted while still being knocked out.

She didn’t want her to see any of the ten counts earned with each bloodshot glass reflection, every bruise covered with dinner, dancing and dirty deeds or the hollow point sensation she’d felt in her lungs that never stopped filling with the overflow from the hole in her heart.

She wasn’t old enough to understand how desire could create a well, fill it to overflowing and set it aflame to burn from within.

She refused to let her see that she’d become nothing but a gurgle, a babbling brook, a soul overflowing in copper plates, unwashed heads, Peter Rabbit tales and wishes bred in beds of fire on fire.