Thursday, January 19, 2012

It's not a poem unless someone calls it a poem, and I'm not calling it that.

With Thanks to Bill Holm

Words lined up in particular form
bring the mirror to your face,
except
it isn't your reflection as much as it is
the face you thought you'd already forgotten.

I've been taken up by my hapless collar and
pulled through the rake of divorce;
tendons separating from bone.
Bone and marrow finely defined.

Later, I leapt
foolish footing from a cliff's edge I hadn't
noticed, or pretended not to see. I didn't think, only
felt the fall and blessed its decent. The
ragged bits of me weightless in the movement;
fantom limbs.

I forgot
the sensible thing, the priority of self
preservation and gave it up
for a guy with blue eyes, his hapless collar tented at the
back. His raked form lovely to my missing eyes.

All these years
for the sake of the heat of the hand in the middle of the night.
The one that has been there for years. Will be.
The heat that could melt a stone.




(I bid you good writing)

4 comments:

Danica said...

It's a poem!

Steve G said...

It is wonderful. The poet has arrived!
Love you, love the journey, love the will be.

Bonnie Grove said...

Danica: Well now you've gone and done it. :) Thanks for your encouragement.

Steve: Me too.

Susie Finkbeiner said...

It is lovely!