Friday, March 31, 2006

The Consequences of Inclination

I have seen it drive women to madness
—a slow tightening of the thighs
as definite as winter chill—the breeze
deep-seated, fixed like sea to sand.

And it is beside you, inside you, all season:
something stirs in the air.

Voices, like petals pulled from their stems:
"He loves me." It is enough.

It is enough—
beneath a current, where stones lie silent,
where breath becomes still within minutes.

We say yes, yes, yes to it all – only to linger
on eastern edges, like game pieces: each
rapt to see where the other may go—so
still at times, we appear to be the next
period as it awaits return.

Long ago, I walked this path—body depleted,
nerves on the ache of splinter. And at the
close of it all, I found nothing.
[I found nothing.]

Chest split in the bitter fist of December,
left to solidify in its grasp—I remained there
forever it seemed: bruised shins, hair in my
hands, and one black boot on the floor.

1 comments to Cher:

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