We sewed them from figments of dreams,
our lovely wings that felt as solid as your body
when you practiced flight inside my skin,
when we burned against the gravity
of knowing this might not be forever.
We ate the sky and each other,
surfeited on the gluttony of touch,
sweet as stolen candy in a child's hand,
melting, melting, sticky stain of release.
Why did I leave,
what did I hear that made me flee
the shelter of our nest of sticks,
leaving you to gape in disbelief?
You never understood the sound
of my bones growing old, could not feel
the ache of being second with no hope,
in the shadow of children not mine.
There are no eggs in our basket, do you see?
You tried to fly, spoke into my ear
a moment too late as my wings froze in place,
as you stretched to reach but didn't see
that you are not a god (not even to me) after all.
From this distance, I feel you burning,
I smell rage and loss, hear wing beats
that are fists trying to break me.
I am sewing as quickly as I can, my Love,
trying to save what is already lost; I must
save you (us us us), I, who plunged
this dagger of sorrow deep into our lives
will dream you safe
even as I understand
nothing will save us, we never really were
and I cannot remember why or when or how
we came to think we could go on and on and on an
24 May 16
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no "h"in Icarus.
Well executed. A different style for you. Less specifically autobiographical and a more general read. I like.
It is still autobiographical, don't we all write our way through our important and hurtful life events? Thanks for recognizing a difference, Polly.
after a while though we have to get so into seeing the non-subjective reality of things that we have to let these people walk out of our poems, walk out of our lives. they were real enough once, and we loved them, didn't we? i like my stuff best when i re-find the love in myself that i felt when i first fell in love with someone. it's only been a couple of times for me, falling in love and not just crushing, but those were the real events in my life. i don't want to just get into a closed loop, and, as you know, people can be such jerks when they've never really been in love -- always telling you to 'get over it'. and, that's not what i'm saying here. i'm saying that making art is to write our way back to our original pure feelings. in my best work, the person walks out of the poem to be with friends. if i love that much, i want the person i love to love at least someone. and, of course, that keeps me from being hurt just a little bit less, freeing myself from the love's exact bondage. again, not saying to forget about it, just "remember that you're the same sweet person you were before you met him."
Thanks, Mike, I appreciate that very much.
Thanks for the read. This is an inspiration.
I can't read this without weeping, even though I wrote it. Usually I can distance myself from my poems to a large extent but this one is almost as if someone else wrote exactly what I am feeling. Muse in a dream state, no doubt.
:( Palpable pain in there. Love 'burned against the gravity'. I get this, particularly right now, as you know.
It still hurts, it's so ridiculous to hurt this much still.