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| I don't even know if anyone still reads this site, but if you do, I've created a blog devoted entirely to my poetry. Visit it instead! http://itneverwasasecret.wordpress.com | | |
| December 2
I find it appropriate
That we're fighting today.
Fight - not even a fight -
A lover's quarrel;
We quarrel because we love.
I find it appropriate
Because we now have the freedom to fight
And to love.
Another gray December day
Exactly a year ago
We could not fight.
We could barely talk or touch,
Merely attempt a nervous laugh.
I smile at how far we've come.
From discomfort to disagreement -
And all that lay in between.
This little quarrel lets me know
That in as little as a year
We've learned to love.
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| This is how we live -
Forced goodbyes in parking lots,
Gritted teeth and burning eyes marking the drive home,
Your hair in my sink,
My trash in your wastebasket,
And the hint of a person in the folds of the sheets.
This is how we live -
Turning corners just in time to remember
He's nowhere near,
Grasping for the hope that arrives
On the wings of Friday.
This is how we live,
In a world where all is significant,
In a wasteland made of love.
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| I'd be perfectly content to tie him up
And keep him that way forever:
Locked in a room,
Lacking human contact,
Looking only into my eyes
To keep him loving me.
And apparently I'd be perfectly content
To do everything exactly like before
And watch it crumble exactly like before
And say I'll change for the next one.
I'm a cold-hearted bitch, I'm thinking
As I smoke this cigarette and shrug it all off
And blame someone else yet again.
Yeah, a cold-hearted bitch
Who keeps her rope at her bosom
And her emotions at bay.
Why is he always here?
And why does he take the bait
With arms outstretched and palms together?
It bothers me.
I'm having to hold hostage a willing victim
Who tells me, rope or not, he'll stay in that room.
It's not fun anymore
And this cigarette is gone
And he is still here
Looking into the eyes of a cold-hearted bitch.
You ask me how I sleep at night?
Somehow I just do.
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| I've heard the stories of my Papaw,
And how he couldn't pray without crying.
My parents choke up themselves
When they tell the story.
I've always struggled
With the end of the memory,
For it never tells me why this man
Wept before his God.
I barely even knew him -
I didn't know the lines of his face,
His smell,
Or his laugh -
I just know what I've been told:
Tearful prayers,
And only God knows why.
But I know why, like my Papaw,
I break down before my Father
Each and every time:
It's because of who I am.
Sometimes my little voice,
Saying the same things it's said before,
Begins to quiver,
As my eyes burn and my head drops
And all I can do is weep before my God
(My God who listens patiently
When I've smacked Him in the face
And doesn't care to dry the tears
Of two undeserving people on their knees).
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