If cold concerns
mingled on your chest
If sore struggles
begged to be confessed,
you still needn’t have left.
For now I wearily stand
with a dusty plate
waiting to be served
perhaps a rinsed version
of a soul that never went.
So I stitch a dutiful smile
with a sweet lining of lies.
I sew the hem with pretty pretense
for a world quick to tire
of waters overfeeding the eyes.
Loss and I in arms entangled
through arid paths and dark waters.
At times we swim, at times we drown
wailing aloud, sitting without sounds,
we crack and mend, we mend and crack.
I lay my head on rigid pillows,
plumped with drifting shadows
of unsung songs I wish I’d heard.
The unsaid and undone write a tune
with a raw rhythm of woeful rue.