Sublimation

“The power of love came into me,
and I became fierce like a lion,
then tender like the evening star.”
                                                                 ~ Rumi

Write me a poem.

Write you a poem.

In the midst of all
The Silence
you say

Write me a poem.

And all the high-arched
women
you have ever
loved
will never make
one
of me.

Write me a poem.

I hate this pen.
And you know I cannot
Write a Poem
with a hateful,
hated pen.

Write me a poem.

Is there,
has there
Ever
been a poem
that was
not
for you.

I believe
because I must,
because I
lived
it, that there was
Life
before you.

But what it
was
I cannot remember.

Your voice after
The Silence,
is full of crackling
echoes;
is full of whispered
fears.

And all the blue-eyed
women
you have ever
loved
will never make
one
of me.

Write me a poem.

God, but I
HATE
writing like
this.

Writing that cries
out for, writing that
deserves
a  bad pen, bad paper,
bad wine.

Writing that rises
from the shallow sour
sump
at the base of my
throat  — you know
the place – that place
where all good
tears fall.

Write me a poem.

It seems only that
life, all life,
has been
a waiting
a path
a flight
a way
to you.

And all the wasp-waisted
women
you have ever
loved
will never make
one
of me.

Write me a poem. 

Write you a poem.

As though
beating for you,
breathing for you,
living for you, is
still
not enough.

©sdrogers 1 december 2012

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