Sorrow happens, hardship happens, the hell with it, who never knew the price of happiness, will not be happy.
—Yevgeny Yevtushenko
Just as the splinters
slip in a bit deeper
beneath the bruise, just
as the clench in my
chest clenches tighter,
just as the tap roots
of ache push lower
into my groin and tease
new depths of darkness,
it occurs to me, soft
as sheepskin, weightless
as being swung off my feet,
how lucky it is to love, and though
the roots still reach
their terrible reach,
and the splinters slip in,
oh please, not so deep,
there is a strange
joy that blooms
in my cheeks
like cherry stain,
like joy.