I was free, I was twenty. I fell wholly &
forever in love every week. I was hungry for life
Look at me, writing circles around what I must face:
The man I love is dead.
So, how are you? friends ask, all kindness & concern,
heads cocked, eyes locked in mine.
&, just like that, I’m his again:
his wife, his widow
There was a room in Antwerp I loved so much
I never filled it with books, a bed, or a table.
It was alive with its own clarity
Death in the fog, all silver
& grisaille as it wreathes
& muffles children in the park.
I sometimes go months without remembering you.
Some griefs bless us that way, not asking much space.
& their skin-thin silt the Scheldt ground down from rocks, slopes & swamps — a rainy-day-gray mud, that satin muck that slips through fingers & escapes toward the insatiable North … Continue reading
A friend betrayed me yesterday. I loved him for his rage, hungers & big flat feet he stomped . as if he wanted to leave imprints everywhere he went. I … Continue reading
I sold her bed for a song. A song of yearning like an orphan’s. Or the one knives carve into bread. But the un-broken bread song too. For the … Continue reading