by Maria Kintner
We are ghosts here, pretending the party still lives.
The Sun; to poke his latent fingers through the broken glass,
pays no mind to our borrowed rally, its beams piercing right through.
And in my bony fingers, I possess a thousand breaths, each one
from a different moment touching your skin; and your arms, they
fit like branches around my neck.
We intertwine, growing vines and shedding dead leaves.
Around us we are all at once Fall and Winter;
cold and falling, but always alive.
The taste of you decays on my lips:
a fragment of old flowers and the memory of your favorite mints.
If I close my withered lids, I can see your face, green from
your dashboard radio, and hear the old lyrics to our favorite
So long ago, when the word girl could describe me
with impatience and awkward lust.
When my desire was stronger than my need,
and I so often confused the two.
My heaven is a vapor, a grey memory for
someone else's sunrise dreams. Those last
vibrations, still bouncing around,
becoming ever quieter still. The last chance
to hear you say "I love you," exactly as you did.
My grip, like Death, to refuse release on what I once
knew, keeps me a phantom, an ivory skeleton, hanging
silently in my darkened closet. I can wait here, and I do.
It's easier than you think.
Author's Note: Sometimes, I remember what it was like to be with Jon, before he passed. Especially in my dreams. They are few, but I cherish them.
Posted on 10/24/2011
Copyright © 2018 Maria Kintner
|Member Comments on this Poem|
|Posted by Shannon McEwen on 10/24/11 at 02:25 PM|
|Posted by Gabriel Ricard on 10/24/11 at 09:00 PM|
I can only imagine. This is heart wrenching, deeply soulful work.
|Posted by Elizabeth Shaw on 12/15/11 at 02:24 PM|
This is sublime, especially with your note which aches with longing. Favorite lines; "When my desire was stronger than my need,
and I so often confused the two."
|Posted by Dan Linn on 12/15/11 at 07:43 PM|
When what is lost becomes cherished even in memory, then it is easier than we would have thought. I love the smell of decay more like garden mulch than horror. This has the timeless feel of lovemaking that never really ended. Thank you for making it feel possible.
|Posted by Kristine Briese on 12/16/11 at 12:21 AM|
This is haunting and lovely; a genuine treasure.
|Posted by Chris Sorrenti on 12/21/11 at 01:48 AM|
I agree with the other comments Maria. I found this to be a truly beautiful, romantically haunting poem in its expression. Nothing forced or clichéd about it, just a river of words, images, emotion, flowing out from you.
|Posted by Morgan D Hafele on 12/21/11 at 12:33 PM|
what a finely crafted piece! thank you for sharing this!
|Posted by Dawn Davidson on 12/24/11 at 06:23 PM|
brilliant metaphors, and silence speak as much as the words, of a beautiful life you had, and a wild woman's desire, at that; with a big taste for all that life gives..we are only as old as we feel...
|Posted by Jody Pratt on 12/25/11 at 01:38 AM|
A lot of truth in this poem, especially in "so often confused the two." Great read.