The End of Hurt Is Not Healing
Whose bright idea was it to start tearing
out pages of poetry and wadding them up
to plug our wounds? The poems I like don’t
even come when you call them.
Whose bright idea was it to start tearing
out pages of poetry and wadding them up
to plug our wounds? The poems I like don’t
even come when you call them.
The highlight of every Christmas was you climbing
the attic staircase, like a memory to your childhood,
carrying down the brown leather case that held
the pearl-keyed Titano accordion.
Late, I rush down the stairs. Distraction, tiredness, hunger, an error in muscle-memory, whatever the cause, I miscalculate the steps. My foot dangles, leather-clad toes seeking, yearning for something not there.
in the kitchen
I don’t know how to act
meeting my flame