tempus fugit and we are glad

Is there inherent quality in this, enough
That if infinity were an option and we,
And this, went
On and on, like
Movie vampires, living through aeons of change,
And remaining, ourselves, unchanged;
That this, and we, would still retain this
Golden sheen of beauty?

Or does the brevity of
Our lives lend them meaning, as
The philosophers and poets insist?
Does our struggle to make a ripple
In our moment
On the surface of the vastness of forever
Define us with honour, joy or value?

And
Even so, does the blink of
Time in which you and I are
Clasped like this,
Have a beauty that overlong held,
Would be stained by familiarity
And contempt, first
Verdigris and then
Tarnished to dirt?

and all the infinite stars

I was staring into the night sky
Thinking about the person I
am, the person I should be,
Who I was and who
I am with you, and it
Was like looking around a
Mirrored room with me
Retreating endlessly away
In all directions.

In a way it was odd, since
Usually I can only see
You.

I started thinking about all
the infinite stars in the sky,
And I could feel myself disappearing,
Shrinking to one of a billion grains of
Meaningless sand, and so

When you woke and asked me
Why I was crying,
That's why I said because
I miss the moon.

petals falling

Some would compare it to an
Onion, but I think, if I'm going
To cry I'd rather it be from the thorns,
So, like a rose, layered deep, our
Mutual and exclusive needs,
Stripped away as they are exposed,
Support, and security,
Acceptance for all this,
Silky hair, and sinewed muscle and an
Absolute lack of judgement.

(That
Is deliberately a dual-edged statement.)

Enough reflections of 'yes, me too' to balance the
'really? ... no, really?' moments, and then
parental echoes and tests we invented to
see how much cynicism you would require and
how strong are you? Because I want you to
Carry this for me, on your own trembling
Shoulders.

Stripped away till there is left just the
Tiniest heart-of-rose, the softest and
Starkest moments of open, raw
Don't-ever-leave-me-alone.
Don't ever leave me alone.

tired

At the stage of tired where I
am limp, muscles sapped of any
power, mind quieted,
spent post-desire and
ready to lay my
head on your lap, close
my eyes and listen.
Tell me a story about today,
about the past, about our loving.
I am too tired to search your
Coruscant eyes for hidden truths
and lies.

So tired that the inner voice that
Questions me, outraged,
(In the voices of my mother and
ex husband)
about just what the HELL
I think I'm doing? has gone on
Break, subdued by the search for an inner
well of energy. That Starbucks is closed, and
for the moment, that cold logic is
rendered vestigial, and I,
Vestal.

Stroke my hair, let me rest, and I
Will resume my subservience,
My cynicism, and my safe distance
momentarily.

the many little deaths

It's funny how some people paint themselves in death
Scream out their gory fantasies to the crowds
When the real death is not black eyeliner and blood, it's
When you lay down your will and accept
The inevitable, stop
Fighting against
Destiny and soft focus.

I'm watching a morality play about death
The slower kind
Nick Cage is shaking in the final
Throes of the battle

And I'm soaking in the agony like
A napkin soaks up spilled wine.

like a magician

like a magician but not
precisely like that,
he lifted a hat, and
no rabbit was
revealed, but instead a
whirling, shifting image of
the world, changed and
filled with his own
gods and monsters and
each bore
his face.

his words pulled at my wrists
and ankles and the
warmth that spread within
made me drunk, made
my vision blur,
made it harder to breathe.

so I found myself in another world,
a universe he had created to
make sense of what he saw and
no matter where I went,
or turned, he was
there, like a soft blanket,
like a fast tornado,
like a fox hunter
and the persistence of the
last note of wind.

now when I inhale
his scent I wonder whether
I was ever real.

codependent

"Oh mama, say a prayer for me
Jesse's back in town,
It won't be easy..."
-Carly Simon


Oh, there's a poem to go with this, but
Before I write it, I must
Channel my mother's spirit, ask her
How she did it for 40 years,
Swam in my father's wake.
Was it worth it?

Is it hereditary that we require
That locus of dark addiction to spin
Around, to focus our lives,
That lends a livid edge of tragedy to
The mundane details of our
Otherwise boring lives?
To the extent that we each
Harbour our addictions to replace
Any that might be lost to
Reform and good intentions?

I thought I had no addictions, but
The tidal pull of your skin tells me
I was wrong.