In My Brewster Chair

Sit and speak with me now
that I am bent and hobbled
in my Brewster chair,
swelling with the rot and bloat
of age and feting along with the time.

Talk to me about mothers and memories,
and count how long we spent in crystal gazes,
locked in the blistering sunlight of youth
without being burned at all.

Whisper into my ancient years
the folk stories we crafted
for our choirs, and remind me of
our animals and their nicknames,
and tell me which ones we became
in our dribbling dream-scapes.

Remind me of our green poetry,
craved into the soft saplings,
proclaiming our love like lucky spinsters
on the barely-born trees.

Forget me not the names of our children,
loved, lost, and never born,
who might have made a difference
and kept me away from this iron maiden,
there was hope for me
in the rouge they put into your cheeks,
but I have crumbled amidst my prayers.

Remind me slowly of the wounds
that we had given to one another,
now drinking honey from the scars
where there would have been blood.

Snap me back into my yesterdays,
life has decided to keep you
and I am bound to go away,
to stay away;
until you remember me again,
I will be gone away.

So keep me bitter on your breath,
stinging your lips
and ravaging your tongue;
I would have died in your position
at even the chance to keep you young.