Getting sad.
Listening. Getting mellow.
The pain of the eagle, the rage of the hawk.
Needing some space to swim. So affected by the misery
in you.
I remember calling it love, making helium,
never a womb alike to yours.
The feelings will give solace. The rain will come to
fruition.
Adoring you has been a privilege.
So much animation. Our covert meal. It’s amazing how
we hate
silence.
I float through wilderness. Like baby wolves—the rapacious
understanding. The gossip has hit its flow; so many cheer tears.
Running a marathon to get to you; laughing at
humiliation; to find you in fires.
The last channel, on the last television, the portrait
has become the last impression.
So great a superwoman—so pleased to have lived—Sade in
the beginning, and Creed in the omega.
Many sockets, many more padlocks, each woman is made
different by symbols.
I love the way it gets easier—
saying what pleases, disputing silence—
running into forgiveness.
