Infested garden
Walking barefoot as if thorns were an anointing
A blessed reminder of better, more pastoral times,
And not the drought of loving speech and warm embraces
Calm but not collected
In the hot winds of denial, betrayal, ignorance
Counting the hours she has been away
I am become a lizard that finds no shade
No matter;
Regret is her province
Her domain, the only thing over which she has complete control
And I am free
But not from the thirst,
The quaking need of her signature scent to drink
The paradisiacal oasis
Promised in her smooth arms and silken hair
Rusted, bullet-ridden canteens
Grow like weeds
But not as virulently... no, not nearly as virulently
As the mercy I should grant,
Could grant, will grant...
To one who speaks truth when she says she loves me.
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