Monday, April 8, 2013

The Forbidden Heart

One longs for the royal glance. And more crocuses. The chunk of quartz I found on West Street and carried three miles home on foot, a story Chrisoula tells everybody. Look at the strange but beautiful man I married. Well, what did you expect when you asked for exile?

What's interesting is what becomes of us and whether we can keep up. To be honest I got nervous thinking it had to do with my left and not my right hand. Details matter! Did you notice that in both our stories we cast peace aside in favor of the body? Gutted indeed.

What song did I bring with me to the world and which were here to greet me? I can't wait for my first look at mist on the pond this spring. Duende. Most people don't even want to help another. Please be the one who doesn't ask that this be easy, okay?

I used to lie below the window with her, learning the language of trailing fingers. She drew in the margins of my poems: turtles who stared into nothingness, ladders strewn with roses. I fully expected to go down and not come back. One finds God only to hide him again in the forbidden heart. It's an old story: I die of thirst while she wonders: where did all this lovely water come from?

No comments:

Post a Comment