The Wound

I’m opening it up and crawling back in.

The wound, I mean.

I can tell, because I thought of you today, and

five minutes later I saw you

on the street,

and I’ve been seeing a therapist,

and this is what I need to do, I know,

and then

I saw you today.

And isn’t that an omen?

Seeing you again makes me wonder

(I did so love you)

about all our unkindnesses –

lies and secrets

and betrayals -

committed in the name of love. Was it love? And

what possessed us? What beast?

Two reasonable people by any other measure -

but there you were, with your need for

adoring masses of women,

and me, compelled to stay

and rail against

that truth,

and beg for understanding

(I have a wound, don’t you see?)

But what reason does the heart need,

when it comes to such things? When it comes to being seen?

So, I am opening it up. And crawling back in.

Us

I thought about what I would miss about you most if we said goodbye. And immediately, I knew.

Our connection, I thought.

And the sex. Definitely.

In the car on the way home from your family reunion, I asked what you would miss about me most if we said goodbye.

Our communion, you said.

And the sex. Definitely.

What about you? you asked.

What was that? I responded.

(I heard you but was still gathering my thoughts. I had imagined you reciting a long list of my most uniquely me attributes – the way my nose moves when I talk, my penchant for speaking in unidentifiable accents, the way I overuse “you know what I mean?” as a filler between thoughts…)

But you didn’t. List those things. Or any others. You said exactly what I would. And it wasn’t enough, somehow, for some reason. Something was missing.

What about you? you asked again.
What would you miss most about me?

I answered, and added one more. I would just miss you.

But I think, the truth is this: we would just miss us.

And isn't that enough?

She tends toward darkness (a poem).

She tends toward darkness (swims in the deep).

The pull of the core, the inner workings,

the doorway to divinity. Diving,

descending, into black as night, lightless beauty.

She thinks about death (often).

Longs for it, really. Releasing, freeing, exhilarating

formlessness. Death in bright,

sweet, homecoming light.

She dreams of flying (not full flight – more just

bouncy steps that lift and

leave her suspended just long enough).

Respite in air, easy breezy, a gentle drifting back to earth

to bounce again. Lifting, lilting, lovely flight.

Her breath gets stuck in a painful

hollow between her chest and throat

(the place, she knows, of secrets,

and surrender).  Oh,

for a voice to move through

the mire – teller of the difficult truth, singer of the sweetest song –

she will be.

The space between sleep and wake: a poem.

The wind gust

swept in through the small

window above our heads,

and I was sure  it was a woman

you had invited into our bed

without my permission.

You stirred and stole the blanket.  

Finding another, I wrapped myself  

in a cocoon, glad for the warmth,

the dark and the quiet,  ready for the next visitor.