Moonfaced girl, with eyes full of stars, asks me to write her a poem.
How can it be that she don’t know that I WRITE HER EVERY POEM
When I write grief, pain, and fear, I am writing about you
About the places where you live in my body, just under my skin.
But you don’t want to hear that do you?
No, your face wants a love poem
You want to hear that MY LOVE, is like a heat wave.
So intensive and expansive, the way it transforms the very air, that you have to learn to breathe all over again.
You want me to romance you with the tongue of Sappho and the arms of Neruda, wrapping you in constellations of awe
You don’t want to hear that my love broods in dark corners, skulks in alley ways, hides itself in bed, where the absence of your round fleshy form, no longer warms like a hearth beneath the covers
You don’t want to see the tears that collect more often than occasionally as I go about my daily chores, remembering the way you smelt of wildflowers, honey and summertime.
You don’t want to know that my love is wounded and guilty and damaged. You don’t want to prick your gentle fingers on the sharp corners that have formed along its edges, jagged and barbed in anticipation of being touched
My love WAS like a heat wave, it scorched the grass, and starved the birds.
Let’s pray for rain now.
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.