Betty Nichols and Amy Moffitt

Betty Nichols

By Amy Moffitt
Inspiration piece

They don’t mention the lists…
the fluttering, cluttering memorials
to obligations and dreams,
the false hope of control…
they don’t say you’ll be chasing and chasing
and will never catch up.

They don’t say how your body
…..starts to shift
……….     starts to s l i d e,
and how many mindless movements
become nervous tightrope walks,
how the wolf is always at the door
and its name is Pain.

They also neglect the role of Regret
(pain’s howling sister),
whose teeth gnaw and nibble,
and clack and crack
at the edges of consciousness

So, unprepared,
we dance with distraction.
Some favor addiction,
others favor contraction.
We withdraw from ourselves,

and get lost in blind action
so the grief
doesn’t hurt
quite so much.

When really our grief needs the touch
of attention.

Move through the middle, love,
there’s nowhere else to be.
Move through the middle,
and come dance with me,

to the click and the crack
of our knees and our backs
as we weather this fading
let us not just stand waiting for death…

take my hand, and together,
take a deep breath.


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