I braided a basket of my fingers,
in case I was required to catch
you
if you fell from any sort of height
or perhaps needed a boost
to reach a shelf
or a step
on a ladder I could hold
once I’d unwoven these hands
to grip the rungs better
if you eventually decide
to climb.
Image by Pexels from Pixabay
Was I a plaster
you slapped on
to cover the burns
left by your family?
Something temporary,
to hide the harm.
Was he water?
More than you’d seen
all in one place
and so inviting
you were willing
to drown.
Did you lose me
on purpose?
Or did the currents
just pull us apart?
Either way,
did you notice
that I was gone?
I looked up what ivy was supposed to represent,
after we called the man with the poison
to clear the wooden fence panel right to the root.
This creeping plant,
that works its way between the cracks,
and closes its fist so slowly,
so quietly,
that you cannot see the brickwork break,
it’s supposed to represent friendship.
I thought about you then,
how I’d failed to see how deep you’d planted yourself
until the moment that you cracked me clean in half.
Like ivy, you keep coming back
no matter the cold or the drought,
there is no prying those tendrils loose,
no poison that will make this shadow of you wither.
I must live with the damage you have caused.
I must somehow learn how not to crumble.
Carol J Forrester 
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