Sunday, November 28, 2021


She's still there smiling, trying to give me 
A proper pose of farewell
But her curtsy was too sexually charged
And she was too much in love to not
Dominate the photo, indeed the whole 
Photo book, crumbled with its dead
And yellowed with adult innuendo preserved.

She was nine years old
And nobody knew what we did downstairs
As she directed her own versions
Of the shows the grown ups put on,
Especially when they got naked,
The closest thing a child can see to truth.

I was far too young myself 
To understand the lines I said
But of course I knew them all 
As well as her. And my private flag
Snapped to her attention
As for any nocturnal bride.

There was no one else, really,
She took any innocence I had
When I was ripped away to another state
So my parents could discover more intriguing partners
And I could find with the driftwood some water-logged
Not quite virginal approximation of her.

Often I've imagined never letting go,
Her waking in my arms, knowing love
Never has to disappear and find new forms,
For there is only ever one
Despite the soul eyes changing,
The end growing further out of sight.

Love's been the roughest of journeys,
The pleasures so much less than what I felt,
The pains much larger than what they were.
She went to a college nearby, became a preacher's bride,
Saves souls in her free time, and everything
Of what I remember or imagined is in her eyes.

It was never meant to be, but somewhere 
The tears went away, and somewhere they 
Never came. The impossible hung 
Like a star and never lost its allure. 
What was could never compensate for the feeling 
It created, what created by itself,
Far, too far from lovers and their scars.