She and her mother and father
can only know the fullness of your love
after you have completely removed it,
after you have left the increasing yawn of silence
enter the door of their house.
All with gentle grace, of course.
They know now of love and all it's ardor,
how cleanly it can sever the heart
of fragile daughters directly in two.
She, again she, the one who now
only exists in poems,
is only as whole as the hollow words
you crooned to her years ago,
when you were both naked
in the broken bed.
Do not worry. She will find some other
handsome fool and will try
to fit his words into
the old stamped outlines of yours.
The ones who are first will suffer
the deepest injuries,
they keep scars in the way
miserly men keep books of war,
and will be shuffled back
to the bottom of a dusty and worn out box.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
1 comment:
No criticism here, my friend. Beautiful. Pure, cathartic beauty. I think you nailed it, here, and I'm not just saying it. You nailed it like the Doubloon to the mast. Cheers, good George.
Post a Comment