All your wounds, I want
to kiss them, all the places
chafed, strafed, shattered,
clawed at or raw. Anywhere
you’ve bled, I will mingle my blood
with yours. Wherever you are sore,
let me knead you. Wherever you ache,
I offer balm. Let me cradle you,
hold you, hum to you, know you.
I cannot heal you, can’t whole you,
can’t help. But I can love you
in your brokenness. Now is the time
for love. No one can love without
breaking, dear. Come. The flowers
are fading. We’re all we have.
Gee, I thought by the title the poem was going in another direction, but it works.
I particularly fond of the turn (and the line) I can love you in your brokenness. And then the flowers, ah, back to the other fall.
such wisdom and strength here. “I will mingle my blood with yours [Aye! The glories! The glories! Such a powerful image. Thank you, for it.],” …even though, “I cannot heal you, can’t whole you[!]/can’t help.” “…But I can love you/in your brokenness. [Because of, “your brokenness”?]” The paradox, that by professing your inability to help, heal, whole (wowza, whatta right word!), you open the very space that allows that triptych to become manifest.
For your next collection, include this poem. Hands down; no questions asked; no need for discussion; no waffling/hedging.
“More please. I want some more.”