Foot Bindings
I asked my grandmother how she knew she'd fallen in love.
I am not sure I ever did love him, she said.
This was before I met my husband. I was naive, a naked spring, a raw nerve
of a thing. That cannot ever be me, I knew. Sadness swept in gently like a Moscow thaw.
It is no simple thing, looking into a woman's vast soul and seeing its foot bindings.
Now, in Italy divorced with my skin singed off, when I say I don't love him mean: I have succeeded at feeling nothing most days and it mostly works.
Do you want the comfort of Nothing? Do you want Nothing, too? Be warned:
you'll never be free, even when you are nothing. Here is what doesn't work: Accepting the stages of grief. Talking about it. Sitting with the feeling.
Missing him—no, the person you were when you believed in death do us part.
Writing poetry. That, too. When I say I don't love him I mean:
I feel capsized in an endless, starved tide. What sometimes works:
selective memory. You must forget ripe tomatoes and his beard and feeling perfectly sheltered in a big blue world.
Forget coffee in bed, laughter watching TV, blowing out the candles
on the birthday cake and the quiet all-encompassing knowledge that you are chosen. Remember only how love turned to a banal everyday survival act, a trapeze act unsure whether he will catch you, how the warmth stagnated and became sour, remember the foot bindings and remember the resentment boiling
in your veins as you stick it out for the kids. Six-hour Netflix binges help, too.
A man's fingers tracing your spine. Frozen pizza at 2 a.m.
Random trips to the museum just to stand near things that last a while.
The realization that crying won’t change anything. Seeing that life is
just a dream, and refusing to participate in your own suffering.
Bite your fist.
Walk on eggshells around joy.
When I say I don't love him, I mean he didn’t break my heart, he just stopped touching it
and it forgot how to beat right.
Comments (9)
Autumn is nature's last display before the bleakness of winter! It deserves to be celebrated like fireworks! Excellently captured and written here Dana!
Makes me think how leaves let go, somehow knowing they will form part of spring. Can I let go, too? 🍂🍁
Love this glorious haiku, and that last line is 💥! Beautiful job, Dana! ✨🩷
Fall is indeed my favorite time, there is so much happening in nature
Oooo, provender is a new word for me. Loved your beautiful Haiku!
Fall is my Kenny's favorite season, and the one in which I begin my struggle with death blazing all around me. I appreciate this view from you. Bless.
I always loved the idea that autumn is just the beginning of a cycle. That's why I love proper seasons (even though we don't really have them where I live). Well done.
I love (this is not the end) I use it to live by lol
Ohhh, masterclass in autumnal haiku writing, right there! Well done, sir! That last line is stupendous!