Wild Thing

 

iyengar-yoga

 

Pardon me,

That I may gaze upon you,

Your figure twisted into a Peaceful Warrior,

Hips stacked, body balanced, arms aligned, head high,

Staring into the face of the universe without fear,

The sunlight dappled across your skin like waves

Lapping upon the shore of my dreams,

Like a heat map that leads my eyes to yours,

Like a road flare illuminating the shadows of your soul,

And in the half light, the moment stretches, and,

Brought to the breaking point,

Sings one last warbling note on its golden lyre,

Then shatters.

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What I’ve Tasted of Desire

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Title is from a line of Robert Frost’s “Fire and Ice.”

She’ll wear your perfume, but only once you’ve left, or rather, once she has chased you out, swift-sweeping all the remnants of you from her castle, save for a single bottle of the pink lilac scent you used to wear, when you were her lover.

She’ll burn your clothes, it’s true, and you’ll leave in such a hurry that you’ll forget your dream journal, which she’ll decide is too sacred to read, and into the pyre it’ll go – all those dreams you used to hold so dear, all going up in a blaze of glorious smoke.

Your books will end up in a bin in front of a library twenty miles out of town, though she’ll consider keeping Tolstoy, if only for the irony. She’ll decide against it, in the end.

She’ll pour your cognac down the sink, or better yet, toss the whole bottle into the ocean blue, for the mermaids to get drunk off of, and they, too, will feel the heat of the passion you once let smolder in between the bedsheets, which she’ll burn later, when she goes to the beach next Midsummer to light a bonfire in memory of freeing herself from you.

It isn’t until the quiet stillness of September of the year after dawns that she’ll gingerly free the bottle of perfume from an unadorned wooden box in the corner of the side drawer of her most frequently neglected dresser, and dab it between her breasts, and upon her wrists, and anoint her neck with the scent of you, breathing it in like a starving animal – and she will remember you, then, and only then, with some degree of longing, and her heart?

It’ll burn too.

rose-colored glasses: a poem

 

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her hands shake.

it’s not the first thing you’d notice,

but it’s the kind of habit that you begin to wonder about

when you take her hand in yours,

and she’s trembling, and you take her wine glass and

maybe she’s just a little drunk, but no,

the sun’s just rising,

and it’s just rose-colored water,

or perhaps something more sinister;

either way, you cannot help but greet the day

by pressing her up against the wall,

letting the glass fall unbidden to the floor,

and it shatters, the scent of blood thick on her breath,

but it’s only, you find, because she’s bitten her lips raw,

and, oh, she must love the taste, love it as she’ll never love you –

and you can taste that on her, too,

the way she tenses under you,

the manner in which she pulls away a second or two too soon,

and then you kneel before her, your knees scraping against the broken glass and

your blood mingles with hers and

it’s not all right and it never will be,

but maybe, just maybe,

she’ll lie with you tonight,

if only to lick the bloody tears from your eyes as you mourn

what could have been.

her hands will be steady as she wraps them ‘round your throat

and that’ll be the last thing you ever notice about her, the world, and all,

save for maybe a passing thought about how there are no stars in her eyes, now,

though you’d swear they were there, earlier.

Gray Like the Shadowlands of my Youth

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I will never be able to come up with an appropriate metaphor

For the color of your eyes;

Gray, like the shadowlands of my youth,

Not in truth,

But in memory,

Green with jadedness from strife,

Not in life,

But in dreams,

Blue, much in the same manner of the sea

On a cloudless day;

That is to say –

I know not,

For I, too busy mapping the stars in your eyes,

Never paused

To notice something as terrestrial as their hue.

That is forgetfulness – its Cupid’s arrow sweet and true.

Long I Stood on that Mount

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Long I stood on that mount,

And sang mournful poetry

That spoke of the passing of twilight

Into deep, forest-dark night,

The rise and fall of summer

To autumn,

The silent marching of the years

Over the edge of eternity.

All Fall Down

 

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You are held entranced by

The pale milk river of her arm against yours

And the new-leaf softness of her hand as it curls around your own,

And her voice, it sounds like the church bells

Whose ringing prophesizes the setting of the sun.

 

It is quiet until she speaks,

But it is silence that falls

When she asks,

“Stand with me,”

And all you can do is fall,

Recklessly, ruthlessly, ruinously

Away.

C’est La Vie

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I remember

the fire and the ice and the winds and the waves

but I’ve forgotten

her smile

the way he used to laugh;

such is life, they say

but time

has carved away at the cliff face of my memories,

the same way sand carves away at the stones upon the seashore.

 

I remember

everything we left unspoken

but I’ve forgotten

the words we spoke, under the unfaithful stars.

I remember the ending,

but not how it all began,

because such is life,

or at least that’s what they say.

 

I remember

my life in symphony with yours;

such was our life, together –

and such is how it ended –

two divergent paths,

having met at a crossroads,

inevitably returning to their separate ways –

an ill-fated love,

doomed from the start;

but such is life.