Demons and Dervishes

My daughter tells me she was born happy,
And it sounds true–
Given how she twirls through life like a dervish of joy–
But makes little sense.
After all, she came to be in me, broke free from my body.
And well,
I was born from suffering, to suffer,
Perhaps to end suffering,
If not my own, then that of others.
(Although, even if it were possible to ease suffering while suffering,
I have never been a fan of martyrs.)
Perhaps her joy is my respite, or should be.
How would I know?
How to decipher what it is I feel or should be feeling?
How to understand what once was, what I should yet strive to make be?
How to bring into focus all that rests idly and heavily
In this permanent, maddening blur?
How to make sense of
All these moments and feelings,
All the words that have and haven’t been spoken,
All these comings and goings
Of self-inflicted tragedies,
Wounds to the soul,
This unrelenting fear?
How would I know how to be this person
And mother a child who could have been called Joy,
When I no longer write/
Haven’t written in months/
No longer know how?
I wrote, therefore I was able
To know, to endeavor to understand, to be, or at least try to be.
I am no longer.
Or so it seems,
The seeming more real than whatever was.
So it goes.
And there is my daughter,
Still dancing
And laughing
This way,
Always.

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