One can only draw the iron curtain over his heart for so long, and I have deceived my mind— a trick that I played on myself, so skillfully. How can I not recall the birds, the painting of burning sunflowers and goldfish, and how we drew out infinite figures in the flames? As quick as the season changed, you were gone. I was damned by my own internal God— plague and torment, of the quiet kind that swelters your insides— a costly price for a meager amount of time in your presence. This is my conviction, for if no other, like you, molds my tired hands into seven hundred degrees of rapture, I will not spare a glance past the flesh.
We are made and they us-
carbon to carbon, hydrogen to hydrogen.
Must I choose which
universe-bound or eternal-
with the certainty
that Spring will come again?
Through the snow cover
I can imagine leaf and sepal
willows, clover, cinquefoil,
in April, and in June, clusters
of five eggs coupled to a rotting log –
So when I mean to say
I love you
twenty years having
as we draw close—
this is the one, dear,
this park, this park bench
- Donna Johnson, From Stars
I hide in the faintest light,
On the longest finger of an outstretched arm of sun’s ray
That consumes your darkest crevices,
The dust ignites into shimmering powder
Priceless and rare
The abandoned spider’s gossamer is a silken stream of refinement
And the dying moth is kissed farewell by foreign warmth
That is where the inertia lies, my love—
This is our modesty,
Disappearing, unravelling into impaired fractals of light
And if the moon smiled she would resemble you. You leave the same impression, of something beautiful but annihilating.
— Sylvia Plath