Friday, January 27, 2012

Three Parts

(Pre-Script: This poem should be read as the song, "The Chain," #23 on the playlist, plays in the background. Go down to the playlist, click on that song, then come back and resume reading. I'll wait...)(...still waiting...)


It doesn't make much sense that it's only after you've already lost

that you suddenly fear losing.

Only those who have experienced perfection and recognized it

can understand what I am saying.

Friday night, each one of us was feeling

our own thing,

or not feeling it but it was there

weighing us down or lifting us up, depending.


You are not the dead hope I buried 32 years ago, almost 33

but you rub against it sometimes,

that lump where my chest has grown an extra cavity

like a bruise you resemble for some reason I don't know why-

you've only ever been kind.

It's my mind that plays tricks with my heart,
my hands that reach to grasp for a memory that does not know how to put the atoms back together to form the person who once was there,

who thinks she still is,

who forgets you're a much bigger he than she ever was a she.


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