This poem wasn't written aabout the same woman as yesterday's effort, but might as well have been, since the situation played itself out the same way. The title refers to the last act of a tragedy--dramatic, no? Except the emotional entanglements don't always end just because you tell them to--I'm pretty sure I wrote two or three more poems about her after this one.
Most mornings, light subtles
through my room, around
aloe vera and cactus, over
piles of semi-clean blue jeans
and infatuations until my bed is
warmed by something other than
my hand inspecting, smoothing
the space of linen where you've
never been, close, enfolded
by long arms longing to be
softened from beneath by
content breathing, needed, actions
speaking louder than verse in
notebooks, whispers to friends
on corners, each dawn an autopsy
of what never went down. Hand
stops. The shamrocks in the window
incline toward the sky which isn't
indigo yet but will soon be
almost comparable to you and
the calluses on my palms, the
lava between my shoulders know
when to release the rope--let go.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
1 comment:
Post a Comment