November Cathedrals

 I remember your voice

that chilled November night.

It matched the branches

of our favorite tree outside.

Cold and bare,

jagged and black,

slicing into the air -

both

as if designed by a knife.

“I would never lay a finger”

doesn’t really matter

when words can kill just as fast

or faster.

And leave no spatter.

Branches fingering into the grey sky

whistled in the choppy wind

I remember because that’s

what I tried to listen to

instead of your words

biting into my skin.

You were smart

in your choice of ammo.

The kind that leaves no mark

and never runs out.

Though I’ve escaped

I’m reacquainted with November each year

Her branches just as jagged

piercing

interrupting

Her grey-cloaked sky.

And the wounds you left

that have since scarred over

become a little more swollen

each year in November.

But every year, they’re smaller.

And every year, so are you.

And the fingering, jagged grasp

you once ivyed and grew,

dies

and a little more light shines through.

Though you shattered

and fractured

and pierced,

you didn’t destroy.

I’ve learned to position those crevices towards the light

rather than hiding them in the shadows

Because glass that’s stained and broken

belongs in cathedrals.

So every November

with its depleting light

I shine my cathedral windows

and pick up my pen to write

Because my broken pieces

will never go unused

carefully placed, they become my art

and extinguish the abuse.

Your ammo is my paint brush

Your target is my canvas

Your words may still have power,

but I control it.