Blog Project Day 83: A draft poem from the “miscellenaeous” file
I’ve never let go of you,
though we corroded to rust years ago,
from the salt that hung in the air, expired
from our mouths.
I think you only touched me once
without knives, and I still have
a small burning there.
I still haven’t cried you out.
You’re as constant as Orion,
the only constellation I can
faithfully name, pick out
from the jumble of stars.
This is a badge of what?
That I am capable of love?
That having short-circuited on a love
made entirely of electrons and
the short hairs on my forearm
that I can never love again?
(Were you the one who broke me,
or did I come to you with
cracks, no glue?)
I want to fall back, feel
my shoulders fall away, this ache of
loving that grows more fragrant and corrosive.
Finally, I want to cry.
Weep so forcefully Orion is forced
to come down from his sky
kiss me, burn me to ash and voice.