Monday, November 14, 2011

November 14

Today, for a few moments,
it snowed

and then the snowflakes melted into rain.

I want to open a window
so I can hear it,
feel the change in the air on my tongue

but the heat is on, so I don't.
I only watch.

Everything outside is gray.
It's cold:  it's relaxing.
In the dim light, my eyes are safe.

I desire the rain;
I want to pass through the glass and become one with it,
to lie on the earth,
to sink into the wet earth while the rain beats down on me from above--
to melt like a block of salt.

I want to spread out,
become one with everything,

until I am nothing.

Saturday, November 12, 2011

Sonnet LXXX

Every day your words repeated:
you said that I'm the only one
whom I love, that I'm conceited,
that I had poisoned all I'd done.
And so my thoughts were always on
myself and on the sketch I'd drawn--
if I'd acted narcissistic,
if they think I'm egoistic--
and I've never loved somebody,
for if our hearts grew close at all,
they'd see me, weak, conflicted, small;
and with only casual study,
they'd learn how I am just replete
with selfishness and vain conceit.

Tuesday, November 08, 2011


Now I know your name,
and I will call upon it;
I will whisper it
and look for your golden face,
for your red, full mouth,
for your iridescent wings.
Come and comfort me,
come to me, come and be filled;
let me pour on you
everything that is in me.
Love as I have loved;
balance with your heart the scales
that Venus holds in her hand.


You smile and you smile,
you laugh and speak cheerfully,
but my eyes can see,
my ears can hear, my heart feels:
I know you have cooled;
I no longer bring you joy.
I want to ask why,
but you are smiling, smiling;
you laugh and speak cheerfully.


I thought
that, for me, Love was poison,
that it was an overwhelming force made to suck me into evil,
that anyone I loved would insinuate sin into me,
even if he was a good man,
because of how I am—

I’m too easy, too open;
I invite abuse.

I thought that, for me,
there was no such thing as a deep, clean love,
the desire to know and be known,
a force of acceptance, of welcome, even,
in the light of which all sin becomes irrelevant.

I never thought I could feel safe,
that I could trust someone not to try to bend me to his will,
that another person would actually want to know me.

And then, all at once, I knew in a day
what I had learned in a year—
that these things are possible, even for me.

Hope is terrible, terrible—

it’s too late,

it’s too late,
and you said you don’t want me.