Recovering The Sense of Self

Now that we are lungs of our own,

no longer governed by each other

or good-humored light,

angled to make him beautiful;

I leave, tightly grappled within,

as if still in genuflect

still spinning

inside our billowing confessions,

two bodies conquered by cool

curious, cunning damnation...

 

A friend,

in her venues of Valentines,

a countess of stones thrown

proffers me the hangman's colloquial:

"You still feel him...?"

nodding, I recall

the contours & colors of love's collision

"You'll keep feeling it,

however much you wish it stop.

Feel it--feel it all,

there's no prompt drug

to make it go away..."

 

She coddles my sloth of shoulders

with ginger wisdom of grandmothers.

Nodding, I give in

to the germinating futility...

 

I still remember him

blowing out the candles

at our small table

with our unfinished meal;

how we thatched anger-strangled hearts

with saffron sauces of exasperation...

each etching kiss

close to a divine cure,

each curve of our crude pose

close-captioned

for the appetite-impaired...

 

Each saline scurrying tear,

each lonely-wilderness of day,

I force a sort of Nut-cracker's strength

not to feel

that barrel-hollow loss

that gallery of Use-To-Be's

and my friend,

in her Carmen wisdom,

is surgeon savant

stitch me up,

 

I am less in swarms of his tangibility;

I breathe less of his fetch

flooding

I am slowly becoming

just a single prefix,

in my own word and crutch

 

no matter how often I recall

the music of his touch

or the colors  that felt so much...

Reviews

[s y e]

This was good. Well done.

[Adam Whitworth]

well done

[jodi sharp]

good write i like it. im not all sure whats going on but thats ok because some times thoes are the best writes