I have a pack of letters.
I have a pack of memories.
I could cut out the eyes of both.
I could wear them like a patchwork apron.
I could stick them in the washer, the drier,
and maybe some of the pain would float off like dirt?
Perhaps down the disposal I could grind up the loss.
Besides-what a bargain-no expensive phone calls.
No lengthy trips on planes in the fog.
No manicky laughter or blessings from an odd-lot priest.
That priest is probably still floating on a fog pillow.
Blessing us. Blessing us.
Am I to bless the lost you,
sitting here with my clumsy soul?
Propaganda time is over.
I sit here on the spike of truth.
No one to hate except the slim fish of memory
that slides in and out of my brain.
No one to hate except the acute feel of my nightgown
brushing my body like a light that has gone out.
It recalls the kiss we invented, tongues like poems,
meeting, returning, inviting, causing a river of need.
Laughter, maps, cassettes, touch singing its path-
all to be broken and laid away in the tight strongbox.
The monotonous dead clog me up and there is only
black done in black that oozes from the strongbox.
I must disembowel it and set the heart, the legs,
of two who were one on a large woodpile
and ignite, as I was once ignited, and let it whirl
into flame, searching the sky
making it dangerous with its red.
This wasn't really a very light hearted poem for April Fool's Day-to say the least! I need to let go of a relationship and this has been hard for me to contemplate-much less do. "The Inventory Of Goodbye" reminded me of the detritus-both emotional and physical that surrounds all of these partings. My emotional mood has been going from not-so-good to depressed as hell when I think of the inevitability of this parting. However, great kindness was sent to me today in the post and I was once again reminded of the very goodhearted and kind people in my life-I am not a very strong person-but I will make it. OK-break out Gloria Gaynor now[~ ;-)