All the pretty girls wear dresses in the summer—
round, white shoulders. A small, blue scarf tied just so.

But even in your infinite beauty, how could you leave me?

And no, I don’t mean how could you take that job
in New York I mean how could you leave me?

I remember my own undoing, that winter, outside
in the garden watching a tiny buzzworm push up

and out of hard, frozen soil. I too, wanted a task then—
I too, would only love that which recognized me

in my despair, which beseeched me to love it still.
So, how did your heart auscultation go?

They discovered a twelve-piece marching band inside,
all out of sync, cymbals broken, members confused,

heart murmured and tongued itself as a living wound,
a tender thing reassembling.


Filed under: Poetry