Who told me time would ease me of my pain! I miss him in the weeping of the rain; I want him at the shrinking of the tide; The old snows melt from every mountain-side, And last year’s leaves are smoke in every lane; But last year’s bitter loving must remain Heaped on my heart, and my old thoughts abide. There are a hundred places where I fear To go,—so with his memory they brim. And entering with relief some quiet place Where never fell his foot or shone his face I say, “There is no memory of him here!” And so stand stricken, so remembering him
A woman who writes feels too much, those trances and portents! As if cycles and children and islands weren't enough; as if mourners and gossips and vegetables were never enough. She thinks she can warn the stars. A writer is essentially a spy. Dear love, I am that girl.
A man who writes knows too much, such spells and fetiches! As if erections and congresses and products weren't enough; as if machines and galleons and wars were never enough. With used furniture he makes a tree. A writer is essentially a crook. Dear love, you are that man.
Never loving ourselves, hating even our shoes and our hats, we love each other, precious, precious. Our hands are light blue and gentle. Our eyes are full of terrible confessions. But when we marry, the children leave in disgust. There is too much food and no one left over to eat up all the weird abundance.
stuck in an unnamed place half way between love and in love, you call me late at night and ask if i'm sleeping. i tell you, i'm writing. you ask about what? love, i say.
when i write about us, i stop myself from saying we make love or we have sex. i search for a euphemism that won't bind me, won't define us. i arrive at the phrase move together. and only now, in writing this poem, do i see how fitting it is.
Eli came back from Iraq and tattooed a teddy bear onto the inside of his wrist above that a medic with an IV bag above that an angel but Eli says the teddy bear won't live and I know I don't know but I say, "I know" cause Eli's only twenty-four and I've never seen eyes further away from childhood than his eyes old with a wisdom he knows I'd rather not have Eli's mother traces a teddy bear onto the inside of my arm and says, "not all casualties come home in body bags" and I swear
The decomposing squirrel in the yard, a plump sack. That night I bled for hours, like a dumb animal. The evening news: Mother’s doing fine today. By Wednesday, I could smell the body from the porch. I couldn’t make myself not look. First the flies on its brown eyes, then the mice in its tapering ribs. Soon it looked like the remains of a fish, a furry scalp, a plush dead thing. I drank lemonade and gin in the shade as the neighbor’s cat stalked the bossy blue jays. (Mothers, in this case.) They kept up the noise for hours. Last night it was just a skeleton, light enough to be lifted by the wind.
Love unrequited is a crushing yoke; but if you see love as a game, a trophy, then unrequited love’s absurd, a joke-- like Cyrano de Bergerac’s odd profile. One day a hard-boiled Russian in the theater said to his wife, in words that clearly hurt her: "Why does this Cyrano upset you all? The fool! Now I, for instance, I would never allow some bitch to get me in a fever... I’d simply find another one-- that’s all." Behind his wife’s reproachful eyes there gleamed a beaten, widowed look of desperation. From every pore her husband oozed, it seemed, the lethal sweat of crude self-satisfaction. How many are like him-- great healthy men, who, lacking the capacity to suffer, call women "chicks" or "broads"; it sounds much tougher. ( Yet am I not myself a bit like them?Collapse )