beached, in flame

White against the field of

 sunshine sheets,

yellow with marigold butterflies

fluttering past –

leftover bed linens

out of the house of youth

and Mother’s sustenance

abandoned years ago,

she lies flayed,

moonlight banging

on the window glazing,

rattling her night,

speaking whispers barely



“Who are you?” they ask.

Staccato, she pounds back

to the unrelenting moonlight,

“I don’t know who I am!”


She whispers to fire mice

living in her flesh,

“I burn for dreams

of what never was…

memories I wish never were.”


Truth lies in the tiny flames

Enduring, she waits.


Devora (June ’09) adds, “I wrote this as I creep along in the self-discovery of my recovery. Many seekers have commented on the process of finding oneself. In my own process of discovery, I have found that most of what I held as absolute truth was really illusion and most of the memories I have are really shrouded in mists. I wrote this because my mother keeps saying she is so happy to have me back. I think to myself, “If I don’t know who I am, how can you?”


* a poem from the July 2009 edition of Ninepatch *

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