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THE INTERVENTION
It was a quiet convention of gurgling grief.
Silences usurped her words.
History had carved a bust of livid surreptitiousness.
She washed down pills at morning's break
with fancy brands of Chardonnay
my sister thought was apple juice.
She stood in a quivering stance
and slept that way -
all her ghosts had interrupted
operas of her rituals.
In gripping claws of useless banter,
cocktail parties drank her strength.
Delivered her a little lighter than a rock
on edges of an avalanche.
But the process turned its back on hope,
consumed by long retreating hours.
Columns of regret were poised
like tipping towers of Pisa here:
"Five years ago, something snapped.
I don't know what. Just went...just went.
I've followed its caves
on carriages and carousels
of alcohol and Valium rides."
You tell me this.
I tailor my suit of mindfulness
for leaning into trouble zones.
Listen like a lawn-mower's blade
held just above the too-long grass.
I want to whack it down, of course,
as any loving daughter would.
Helpless as a batting moth
against some dirty summer screen.
My duty is to intervene -
a white cane in revolving doors.
The window, however, is open now.
I feel the light, a sense of coolness
on my skin, want to pass it on to you,
as if I am your father's hands.
- Janet I. Buck