It seems to happen in this way:

One day
there is nobody left
to write me a poem.
Nobody left
to tell me that my own hands
are as smooth as the grasses
that creep through your toes
in sweet july heat,
all dewy and fresh with bright morning.
Nobody's left to remember
what awe they once saw
in a figure
a gesture
a hand through the hair
a scent of hot sweat
and drugstore shampoo.
There's no wonder left-
like I have no persistence
in them
in anyone
no piece of permanent joy
no brigh-shining attribute,
calling for song,
celebration-
nothing is left here
to parch love's wandering thirst
or ease lust's aching yearn,
As if upon touching my form
a silent quickfuse is lit
and I, the deadspot centre of it
tick away until, it seems
I'm prematurely haggard
null
and void within the circle of
your still-fresh bolted arms.

Why is it
that I regain my shining,
come back full of lustre,
soon as I am sick
and sad enough
to really, truly go?

Like tiny Joans of Arc
it seems my qualities are best
when cited loud and late

glorious, and ultimately
posthumous.

06/15/2006

Posted on 06/15/2006
Copyright © 2024 Trisha De Gracia