“Dying by the Sword”
God does Silence so well,
steady and level. I have my answer now;
no bright angel will be bringing me mercy.
My only stars are for wishing; My stars give no bearings. “This” is my sad heart’s doing and I am on my own.
I don’t dare speak out loud
any dreams for us.
Superstition holds my tongue:
threatens me with tongs and pliers if I don’t comply.
I forged this sword by myself,
strengthened it with my lack:
Sharpened and double edged it out of desperation and ache.
See how it fits your hand? Try its weight.
I want you to grow comfortable and at ease with the feel and swing. It was designed with you in mind.
I know that you will fall me with it someday, sudden and unexpected.
It will be a quiet Sunday afternoon and for no apparent reason.
Surprise will rise up between us like a gulf,
and you apologize again and again,
rubbing my hair like a cast off pet.
I forgive in advance. I bleed in advance. My fate is certain.
This painful anticipation
is the worst of the wounds.
You run me through as gentle as possible:
leaning me on the sofa and getting me a pillow.
Fatality winks at me
from the corner of every room I breathe,
all friendly, like she only wants to talk or share a drink.
She innocently pats the seat next to her for me to come and sit.
“Let us chat.” she says.
She knows my name. In spite of all that I see so well,
I run toward you anyway.