There Is A Cleft In Me, by Janet Youngdahl

There Is A Cleft In Me
by Janet Youngdahl

Even filled in with earth
It’s visible.
Clefts do that.
They begin a simple parting,
A tear, a mere rip
Sorting your body into before and after.
And when not finished,
The cleft becomes unbearable
Lack of separation,
Unconsummated parting
Leaving me here,
feet on the grass without you.

I never intended this branched divide,
this obvious wake in my water
marking me as one who was
taken fully by love, candled and glowing
without need for air.

Is the cleft an absence or an opening?
I only know I cannot rid myself of its geometry.
I remain shredded by the exhuming
chisel of devotion, carefully hewn in
symmetrical slices of transparent soul
somehow invisible to others.

I may appear whole. I am not.
I am a thatching
of grief’s beams,
a weak ceiling over the
craggy angles
trying to remember
that my cleft,
like broken honeycomb
given enough sweet rain,
might again inhale

Process note: The poem was inspired by the death of my father.

Janet Youngdahl has published work in The Antigonish Review, The Malahat Review, Light–Journal of Poetry and Photography, and the Friends Journal. She lives in Alberta, Canada within sight of the Rocky Mountains.

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