You are old enough to feel it. You are old enough to fear it. You are far away from home. You are too old to yearn, yet you do. You are too wise for heartache, yet you ache. You are too hardened to heartbreak, yet you break.
A woman young and olive-skinned pours milk over her thighs. You are transfixed. Caught in the raw moment of desire. A fire I did not light. This fascination, you say, I’ve acquired, no doubt it comes from you. Your own red-faced transgression.
Bechet tempts, takes what
was mine, was ours. Friday’s
demon, ogre, dark. You move
to the wood, Saalah, dragging
his prey. The day is yours.
Intended for lovers true.
Me now in my blacks pouding the avenue with my ballet-slippered feet.
They lead me nowhere through the deluge –
- A widow lost in the city; an out of place orphan on the page.
One swipe of the red-pencil and I am erased.
It was a raw winter. My, your heart bloody and bruised,
we had done the same to others; leaving them to deal with the crisis of
betrayal, the awfulness of hurt, of a seeping wound that would not heal.
A woman, young and olive skinned, pours milk over her thighs and you are transfixed. Caught in the moment of raw desire like Bunuel. A fire i did not light. This fascination you say i won't
I am raw Clipped to the bone. An animal declawed, defenseless.
You leave me here like this, knowing I can take it.
You tell yourself this - it makes the going away easier.
Even in the New Year, you usher in the old.
The what I so did not want to expect.
Yet here I am; there it is,
and all around the hoarfrost ground crackles, pisses –
Days stretch out before me, an endless horizon.
I know that strictly this is impossible.
that one day, like everyone, I will die.
I live, wait for the seizure charges, a mare, nostrils flaring.
Why my own grim reaper has come to take me home!
All blatant and beautiful, she walks city streets
Speaks only sotto voce, mezzo forte, awakened
By her mother who says, You are Gods favorite.
His special chosen one. Year she will believe this,
Even then after Dad’s disappearance; twelve-years-old
And never once did she cry, the affair at last over. The
I’m not the one you thought
oh no you figured it out you
thought but ho, you were
wrong to think, such thoughts
they steer off course,
a car I once crashed
but on purpose, a field,the cows
look curiously on and I sat
head to the wheel and sang
my mourning song. the long-
He tells me it’s a mixed state, that’s all. I wonder mixed of what .
What mixed with what? Elation, depression. A fight to the last.
Neither of us knowing which will win; there is just hope.
Compassion rules the moment; compulsion rules the day.
Impulsivity is everywhere. I am off the hook.
It’s like a Raymond Chandler poem – full of suburban grief, not grief, yet with some cowboy edge. The bad boy of Wellesley ; the bad boy of New Canaan .
It’s a tilt a twirl tea-cup. A ride of thrills and nausea.
the salmon-colored pills will help with this.
With these mild aphasias, these tilting and off-balance manias.
You cut a swath through the thicket.
A route to guide through the good night.