Miner in The Writer

“You listen too well”
my mothers well worn back-handed compliment,
reclining, or maybe melting,
kitchen chairs, an upturned glass,
heel of her palm pressed against the darkening sky of her cheekbone.

I have not broken the barrier,
the safe place is in the dark stairwell,
where the bulb has burnt and shattered,
I have not moved, have barely breathed, but she knows I am here.

Front door askew,
her smile a broken hinge
and I am mining for comfort in words unsaid.
Will continue to dig deeply all of my life
seeking the misplaced good.

Will hear again and again,
that I listen with a hunger.
Words become sustenance, an anchor;
tether me to another person.

A tiny pick axe carried in my pocket,
ready to chip out secrets,
but though a well intentioned weapon,
sometimes struck too true-
I can injure also.

Tunnel too deeply and hit an artery,
watch a memory bleed the talker dry.
Always apologetic for my folly-
I know words with glass slivers on the edges,
so they cut coming up the same as going down.

“It was my fault anyway” she sighs out
gathering dishes, cups, flatware
in a vanishing magic trick, but still the bruise remains.

I will take this with me, will tuck it deep inside my heart
where the essential pieces of me reside,
that when someone strikes you,
it is your fault. When someone hurts you, it is your fault
and when someone tells you it’s not your fault,
you smile, you agree, you tell them you know,
but you keep your hand over that obsidian chip,
and you refuse to let it be excavated.