Get Her Up

Someone put my mother in hell and it wasn't me.
Way before I was a thought in consciousness
Way before the wars and bombs fell
Way before erosion of her heart began
She was pulled under.

It was as if pins and hooks stretched her
It was as if knives and needles scored her
It was as if water was pushed down her throat
and her breath couldn't be caught for eons.

Her brain split and her body caved
Her tears ran red and her sweat bullets
Her words of comfort were exchanged at
the gates of freewill for soul woundings.

The fog that followed her caused blindness
The chaos that ensued caused havoc
The pain she inflicted caused destruction
Her touch lethal, her eyes evil, slitted in agony.

The doctor she married, the doctors she courted
the doctors that evaded, measured, prodded and chided
The doctors that twinkled their eyes and those that slurred
under their breath unspeakable words of contempt and hatred.

The doctors in robes in clinics, the ones with ties
The professors, the specialists, the gurus, the despised
ones that didn't answer their phones, the blood letters,
the piss detectives, the gastro investigators, the pulse takers
the paper writers, the pill dispensers, the patient listeners,
the irate men in white, holier than thou, up on the pedestal
as the saviors from the gallows, for surely it was her last day on earth.

And in another bed, in another gown, in another hospital in another town
The case book volume 10 and growing, an addiction to the path once taken
under a chupah now under a glaring flourescent it should suffice if only to
be prodded, held, talked to like a lover who leaves you bloodied and ailing
broken and child like, do like he says. Follow instructions, keep the routine going.

Joy, lost girl. Watching from the sidelines as a woman pours herself into the pit
once more, don't cry, don't cry. Blaming herself little girl - never understood
the dynamics of the depths of hell and why one would choose to live there.
And if she was my mother, it was I joy named for another possible cure
failed miserably for not measuring up, not filling her cup, not being enough
to turn her mind back on track to awareness and forget Self especially when
a child is involved. Lucidity, brief breaks through the storm clouds, from victim
to victimizer - I'd know I was visible during those times when the patient professional
became Antagonizer and Deviser of Mental Affliction. Funny how cycles come and go.
And roles change. Swift enough to fathom that there is a Jekyl and Hyde and they're
fast at changing bunkbeds - who's on top - who's on bottom. And the surrogate parent
in the guise of a child easily becomes the scapegoat, the helpless victim mother quickly
becomes the Judge and Executioner, and eventually, the scapegoat loosens its tethers
runs for the hills, hides in caves, letting rocks and wind be the force to loosen its horns
from the branches of one tree and fasten the cuts and openings and attach to All that Is.