I huddle over the fire
Deciding what to do about the stew
Cold in his bowl
Again
I make a foil packet meal
That fails
Smores then banana boats
Then fiddle with my top button to itch at a scar
Can I see? He finally intones
I unbutton another and another
Then stretch the shirt to show the start of a thick scar forming beneath stitches
And the rest?
The first part is yours and so I show you your handiwork,
But the rest was all me
I button two buttons
I’ll speak it into existence
Because you taught me that’s what poetry can be
Pain and scars
I also taught you, he stands, to prepare and accept the wound. No matter who gives it.
Ah, but now you talk of love.
Do not fool yourself girl, all poetry is love.
All poetry is hell.
He bows, strings a couple arrows, then stands to read at the poetry reading’s podium.
I prepare for a wounding.

Thy silent face
So foreign in stillness
Masquerades
of quirks and tics and pain’s crest
which rested like a crown
upon thy brow

Startle from dream
And hold me
As you held me
Yester’ eve

Hum beneath thy skin
The melody of you
For even crumpled
I am in animation
And you so
So still

Still as windless lake
Glass smooth
Though rippled

I haunt thy shores
And hear no aching owl in return
To my cry
No baying wolf
No roar of bear
No answer soft upon this air
Of stillness

Though the moon shakes the tides
From so great a distance
Holding you
I’ve no pull
To draw you one iota closer

Ah, my love
What use are words to stopped up ears
And kisses to unfeeling lips
That in speaking I interrupt
Thy stillness

Forgive me as I harmonize
As best as i can