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Posts Tagged ‘hurt’

Gift

 

 

When she lobbed a stone at me,

I’d long since taken down the walls

that might have offered protection.

 

Nothing to do then

but hitch a ride on the stone—

a direct trip to the core.

 

Had I known how quickly

it could carry me into self-inquiry,

I might have put the stone in her hand.

 

Nah. Still, I thank her.

Where the stone fell marks the spot

where I was. Already, the soft green moss.

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I don’t really want a stink bug
infestation in your home. And I don’t
really want your full cup of coffee
to spill on your open book. Not really. I don’t.
I don’t want to see you trip on your
ego’s huge feet. Don’t want to hear
that you have some strange rash
that makes your skin beet red.
And your new car, I’d hate to hear
that a surfeit of skunks had their kits in there.
I’d hate to hear that you had shrunk
that dress that looks so good on you.
And I don’t really want to hear that you
are sorry for all those things you said.
About me. I could care less. Really. It didn’t
hurt at all. I don’t really want to hear
the phone ring if you are on the other end
calling to say let’s be friends. No I don’t. Not at all.

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one

old scar
he picks till it bleeds
to be sure it still hurts

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I Do Tanka

I wonder
if you remember which wound
you poured it in,
the salt
in these tears

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Just for a Moment

after reading up into the silence the green by e.e. cummings

Cold is the
(hold me)
wind and
sharp is
the barb
exposed
and
(hold me)
sour are
the words
that flew,
and slow
(hold me)
is the ache
to leave.

It’s cold
love
and though
it won’t
change anything
it would
feel good
(the dark
is near)
if you’d
just
for a
moment
(hear
the train?)
hold me.

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She said it to me in her kitchen, she said it,
the water rushing from the tap into the pot
for tea, she said, You know what people do,
she said, we hurt each other. She said it
with no snarl on her tongue, her face lit
by the sun spilling in through her window.
Her shoulders were soft, though her eyes
were ablaze. She said it as if she were saying,
It’s Tuesday. Or, The salt shaker’s empty.
Or any other careless fact that has no ability
to shatter a world. I did not want to believe
her, but as she spoke the words, I knew them
as glass, and I swallowed them whole and they
cut every surface they touched. I tasted in my throat
not just my own blood, but yours.

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