Saturday 9 March 2019

That open door

I’ve been angry at you,
have not been able to cry it out
for some days

—a baron dam
dug out and
flipped over

but still
not a drip.

You’d implied
you loved me more
than he

you’d left.

I’ve been angry,
have refused to know
the human in you
—have thought that love is mere feed
for reptilian truths.

But this morning I woke to memories
of when I’d chosen anything else
from random sex to plane tix—
over love.

Perhaps you’d run
like I had run.
Perhaps the truth was



In any case,
any way I can call to mind the humanness,
any way I’m able to cry,
means a way to recall
that anger puts a broken heart to bed

but love

helps it to its feet,
helps it to its pants

though painful it may be,
helps it hobble
to that open door.  

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