THE CHANGELING

by

Martin Higgins

I'm pulling myself apart,

Head from heart, mind from soul,

Unwrapping long-lost pieces,

Small, life-worn, worry-rounded parts,

That no longer fit into my best Shadow story -

A tale twice-told - one, safe as milk,

One, blacker than death.

And between those clashing stones, I place my feet,

The last foothold, waiting,

Patiently holding my judgment,

Until I can put myself back together again.

I'm laying out my things,

Preparing to embark today,

My next journey, anxious, restless,

Races on ahead of me.

My bags, stuffed and splitting,

Sit at some shuttered station,

Plainly marked as mine,

But miles from their destination.

My goal, as usual, lost inside me,

Further down the line than expected,

As I sit, sidetracked with fear.

I have changed the cloth of the past,

Ripped out the straining seams,

And set ragged edge against thick welt.

Then wore that thin garment inside out,

To show my grief, threadbare excuses and shiny pain.

All the while speaking grandly,

Of the rich, warm fabric within,

Just beneath my tattered life.

I have said these words, "Forced to wear,"

"Thrust upon me," "Dropped at my feet."

"My many selfless sacrifices repaid rudely,

With a Wastrel's Cloak!"

Woven absently as I sang,

"Oh, Promise Me!"

I can no longer see my front yard tree.

Dazzled by its spattered greenery,

Forty shades of sublime emerald,

The very crown of Earth's wooden god.

I am blinded by its shifting nature,

Set square between precise transit lines,

Blocking my view of a neighbor-scoundrel,

It’s a wind-blown killer, car-crusher,

Bird-haven, kid-gym,

Sawyer's meal, fire-beast,

Leaf-dropper, noose-holder,

Sap-honeyed stranger,

Lifting its arms in supplication to the Sun

Master, Goddess, AUM.

So the tree eludes me,

And I am diminished.

I know that I will not return,

The voyage and its fresh diary demand release,

Favoring the changeling,

Unchained from steely schedule,

And the need to meet each day with yesterday's face,

The same small self.

No more than a meager tally of countless tests,

Skewed to please, curved to tame,

Meant to kill my desire to be,

To be accepted as born,

By nature, in total,

Honest about what I am and what I can be.

So I'm leaving this note where it will be found.

Pinned to the lapel of a ragged coat,

Left hanging on the chair where I sat,

Counting my 49 years,

And pulling myself apart.

Copyright ©1998

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