I loved thee but I told thee not . . . (Clare)
Let me not to the marriage of true minds admit impediments!
For my sweet love remembered, such wealth brings! (Shakespeare)
I cherish her for in me she bides! (Sidney)
And once I almost set down by her toes a Magnolia flower.
And most of all I feared that her denial would be my damnation.
Inaction allowed for the worst to occur: nothing.
And then I walked by her – at dark – embraced by another.
And I walk by her as we are simple strangers.
And the first time I saw her — I knew & I felt it.
And once I almost wished her into being,
And twice I longed for her & there she was!
And it has only been a year since we last saw,
And still think about her mightily
And sometimes I look up and wonder
And sometimes I look down & imagine
And I thought by connecting our pasts
We could forge a future
And then I heard nothing from her –
As if she expected nothing from me
And I never held her hand,
Nor touched her skin
And I wanted to reach across-
But where the bridge?
And I thought a kiss would save me-
Seeing as her hellos warmed me.
And I feared what she saw
But the unknowing hurt as much . . .
And I only knew her in painting
In which I tried to capture her delicate grace
And how she moved in elegance:
And her body was music
And her eyes nests
Her hair waves,
And her voice the sea!
And her legs unexplored caverns
And I the sojourner!
And she my queen, my saint
And I her wearied wanderer
Harried for years on end . . .
And she my Penelope, waiting for me!
Or my Beatrice
Divided by concentric spheres of hell
And I only wished for wings
To carry me there.
And when she ran to another
–away from me
And when she denied me
-I knew it way okay
To stray away
Removing the blade
I stored her anyway.
And carried her with me.
And when I was locked in
I wish for nothing less . . .
And they told me to resort to poetry,
To bring me to you
So maybe out of these lines
We could start anew
And maybe if I pray to Christ
He may bring me to you
But for now the muses
Will have to do
***
And I cried for her
And she for me?
And her?
And I?
We?
Anti-Poem
and she taught me about Rilke and
Anne Sexton
and how borders
don’t always point to new beginnings.
and i noted her favorite tree
and how she danced w/ children
and how she led her kid-sister
to water
- in the case that -
some day, somehow, that stored
knowledge would come handy.
and i made studies of her
hair and charted her path
like past lovers have
done
and like past lovers i failed
so now to those pages
i turn,
hoping to commiserate w/ the ancient compadres
