I started this letter before. I wrote in the steam in the
shower glass. Often triggered by experiencing a place we shared, reaching for
my moleskin notebook, then only looking at the paper. My eyes waited to read
the words. The page remained empty. I have the gift of haruspicy. You live in
another place and time, wearing eye glasses that blank out the entrails. Vision
is clouded.
I exercised, painted and drank bottles of wine. I read. I prayed in my library. Nothing expelled the specter.
Your platitude, “time will heal.”I exercised, painted and drank bottles of wine. I read. I prayed in my library. Nothing expelled the specter.
I gave it years.
The sore needed wound care. Finally it did seal up jagged.
At three in the morning it would awaken me pounding.
Turned the lights on, there was no bloody hole. Only arrhythmia
playing tricks on the amount of oxygen to the brain.
Why are love songs about hearts? Better off with emotions in
my feet to help me use that animal flight instinct. When I met you there was
another contender. I stopped admonishing my soul. I’m great at stock picking. I
conquer adventures.
My children are scarred. Tricked by a tin wind up box with
promises, they don’t offer keys.
Splashing over writer’s block, diving from the platform
without fear, swim up for my life.
I am at fault. A priest gave me absolution, but that Ash
Wednesday cross is tattooed on my forehead.
Time does not heal. Time gives us perspective. The choice to
forgive and love again.
I hope you have joy.
Still missing poem.
Photographs from my iphone Boston College Library
1 comment:
you are adept at the anti-love pen, CG. which I somehow wonder if you'd like to be so fluent in that language, or would choose otherwise ~ M
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