There's this repeating image of the man who wants/respects/adores/admires me who just can't choose me, for whatever reason. I'm sick of it.
To indulge this little pity-party moment, a selection of past poems of love and bile:
Strength
Ice fault lines shift with starlight winds
you shivering with fear that is not cold
me stroking shed skin
realizing suddenly
I have always been alone.
What was it you saw in my face
peering down darkness
edged with dashboard lights?
Could you have taken the thread
to unhem my patched-up life
left the pattern
sewn up a future
like trousseau
in the folds of myself?
Strength is smiling into half-dead eyes
feeling the air rushing past
falling into unlined pit
knowing if I get there
no one will help me land
jumping in anyway
again and again and again and again.
Fall 2002
Resolve
She couldn’t see past the feel of disappointment
that heard her lying to herself
and rebelled.
He couldn’t smell the rotten parts
atrophying in the narrowed sites
of his once-straight desire.
In all the wrong ways
they were together
apart
the solution
to all the problems
their love began.
He croaked and she twittered
but the bird and the frog
both grounded
hunkered down and unfeeling
larger
smaller
wetter
than the rigid noose solution
of their falling-apart love.
June 2004
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