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    • Stacey Robinson

      Blogger
    • March 28, 2014 in Bloggers

    The Texture of shadows

    We danced,
    My brother and I,
    a twisted tango of love and hate.
    He cast such shadows
    long and textured,
    big enough to hide in.

    Thief,
    Liar and thief–
    You stole my parents
    And I loved you–
    Would have died for you,
    Given it all to you–
    If you had only said the words.
    Instead
    I hid in your shadow
    That blazed and shimmered
    And grew mighty–
    Long,
    And longer still,
    It covered all the land–
    My birthright
    My heart.

    Thief–
    You stole from me
    Everything,
    Stole the light of heaven,
    And my father’s eyes,
    That were so dim
    And faulty,
    Until he could see only your shadow:
    Dark and luminous
    And richly royal,
    A cloak that swallowed light.

    An absence of color,
    Your shadow was,
    A cloak of lies for him,
    And a comfort for our mother
    Who needed its comfort.
    She loved you best.
    And I,
    I loved you all.

    You played on ladders
    And tangled with angels;
    And demanded the curse of
    Blessings
    And names.
    You took my mother’s love,
    Stole my father’s touch
    Until there was nothing left for me
    but the raw desperation  of
    silence.
    My brother–
    all liquid cunning
    and silvered lies.

    You took it all
    You thief,
    You liar and thief,
    While I begged,
    Hungering for the easy grace of their
    Notice,
    Living a poor and pale echo
    Of your sheltering
    Sweltering
    Smothering
    Life.
    You turned hard rock into the kingdom of
    Heaven
    And betrayal into a nation of
    Sand and stars.

    And you knew God;
    And so you were blessed
    And cursed
    And loved.

    And now here,
    at the river’s edge
    on the border of night
    and shadows–
    You knew God,
    But I learned forgiveness,
    And so I bless you
    And curse you
    And love you
    More.

     

     

     

    We danced,

    My brother and I,

    a twisted tango of love and hate.

    He cast such shadows–

    long and textured,

    big enough to hide in.

    Thief,

    Liar and thief–

    You stole my parents

    And I loved you–

    Would have died for you,

    Given it all to you–

    If you had only said the words.

    Instead

    I hid in your shadow

    That blazed and shimmered

    And grew mighty–

    Long,

    And longer still,

    It covered all the land–

    My birthright

    My heart.

    Thief–

    You stole from me

    Everything,

    Stole the light of heaven,

    And my father’s eyes,

    That were so dim

    And faulty,

    Until he could see only your shadow:

    Dark and luminous

    And richly royal,

    A cloak that swallowed light.

    An absence of color,

    Your shadow was,

    A cloak of lies for him,

    And a comfort for our mother

    Who needed its comfort.

    She loved you best.

    And I,

    I loved you all.

    You played on ladders

    And tangled with angels;

    And demanded the curse of

    Blessings

    And names.

    You took my mother’s love,

    Stole my father’s touch

    Until there was nothing left for me

    but the raw desperation  of

    silence.

    My brother–

    all liquid cunning

    and silvered lies.

    You took it all

    You thief,

    You liar and thief,

    While I begged,

    Hungering for the easy grace of their

    Notice,

    Living a poor and pale echo

    Of your sheltering

    Sweltering

    Smothering

    Life.

    You turned hard rock into the kingdom of

    Heaven

    And betrayal into a nation of

    Sand and stars.

    And you knew God;

    And so you were blessed

    And cursed

    And loved.

    And now here,

    at the river’s edge

    on the border of night

    and shadows–

    You knew God,

    But I learned forgiveness,

    And so I bless you

    And curse you

    And love you

    More.



    • You mustn’t be so hard on yourself dear.



      • Donald– outside the regular bonds of sibling rivalry, with a healthy dose of literary license, this poem is not actually about me (again, other than how we take ourselves with us wherever we go, whatever we write, when we writers write). This is actually my interpretation of the story of Jacob and Esau, told from Esau’s perspective. Had it been about my brothers and me, it might have been much bloodier in the middle sections. No, no– just kidding (about the blood, not the interpretaion)!



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