“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
