is love close or has the tide pushed it out. Note: I wrote another version of this poem almost two years ago. I have changed it some. I realize that it is a little heavy handed, but the moon, to me, is a very romantic figure. And its pull on me ... is very tragically romantic.
unforgetting stumbling out of hibernation, tripping over forgotten trenches, pawing earth and grazing sustenance- feeling slowly beats through the heart's anesthetized state. sleepy squints brush at the rise in light filtering through winter's peel- the periphery a golden crown, its warmth shocking each fossilized corpuscle. my heart is begrudgingly resuscitated, its memory impossible to delete, the source resurrecting the impulses unaware of what is harder to revive than surviving what was the cause of its initial incarceration. In college, I fell for a boy. We two instantly connected to each other’s hearts. But like many boys in college, he found another connection. One that I could not be for him. It was slow coming, and painful for him to realize. I lived in a cloud of hopefulness and held fast to the love that we felt for each other, and the commitment that we made. Having given up all hope too many years in, he came to me … wanted me. I said yes. I felt like the bear in the cave coming out after a long winter of hibernation. But I came out … because he was stamped on my heart. It didn’t take long though … January to August … until he realized that he feared the leap of faith. Characteristically, we were far away from home on a craggy cliff in the north of Ireland when he told me. And so heartbroken, I turned around, lived another week brutally disappointed, possibly shamed, and moved back to the cave that protected me from the icy chill and into the stale air that life without him left me. frost stumbling toward hibernation, pawing familiar tracks in darkness; first frost, petal snow whisper in the arctic air. sadly, autumn's sleepy squint neglects to reveal the inevitable- that ice storms again to freeze anything that may have held life. I retreat into you though suffocating in the stale air trapped since my last sleep. I think of that boy now. He is dead. He did come to me again … just a couple of years ago. We got lost in us. I was in it for … a lark, but for him … he seemed to hold tighter. I said, ‘what is it that you want from me?’ A question that I had never been able to ask before that moment. And when he said, ‘everything,’ I didn’t have that to give to him. I’m not a bear. I have to live all of the months out in the world, unhidden-unforgotten.
in the yard at noon the teetotaler stoops to pick the weed that happily populates hot summer lawns. careful to rinse the yellow blades of dirt and bug, setting to soak next to the jars and pots bubbling up ripened Michigan fruits. dandelion wine batched and aged, the bitter bloom fairy kissed- sweetens- in the dry of a cold cellar. in a few months time, never in her cups herself, she pours them for her boys 'round the table, the last of summer's tonic.
stumbling toward hibernation,
pawing familiar tracks in darkness;
first frost, petal snow
whisper in the arctic air.
sadly, autumn's sleepy squint
neglects to reveal the inevitable-
that ice storms again to freeze
anything that may have held life.
I retreat into you
though suffocating in the stale air
trapped since my last sleep.
muscled smooth tight round fire
in my belly
melting spots squeezed
during roller coaster rides.
standing - centered,
falling into a tight space,
steam escaping from a seam
that used to be my sex.
faster than I could