In the beginning it was easy.
She looked to heaven;
she aspired to a generous heart.
Prayed for all the dear creatures.
so happy today
I could really let myself go
without giving a shit
what the neighbours think
on either side
I reach out to you now,
in middle age,
as I have always done father,
praying for impossible
or a new skin.
And hold photographs up –
as if you needed proof of
It’s no longer a question of failing.
Now it’s become a question of bending his iron will, little by little
(appealing to his good sense),
in an effort to conserve vital life-energy.
And get him, slowly, back on his feet
and moving again.
And no longer a question of failing.
If I were to do as the others do, darling, who have taken emergency measures this very day to ensure a place in your heart – working it to their every every advantage and may eventually go mad on it and come undone,’ less their assurances prove otherwise – well you’d think it too cheap a trick to be believed, but here love lives.
If you too were to make your grief public, however revolting that
may appear to you at first, saying only those things that count, ever did,
or can be accounted for, rather than through design – that way you get
to live! though lamely you refuse, you do. and so betray yourself.