I.
I know you can’t forget the garden,
all guardian oaks in skeletal frame,
with arcs of India-ink fingers -
the garden where we got high,
to get along and steal each other’s eyes,
I climbed a pine, stretched my arms wide,
“These trees are of our blood.”
You laughed, and left the poetry alone,
seeking higher truths in twilight.
II.
And that night,
the last time you came to me,
limp, pathetic, mewing softly,
and lying all the while –
I was not weak,
nor trembling for you,
but finality cracked my sparrow chest,
and ruin crept over
the garden you made of my skin.
I transferred to the lilies, lining
your gospel roads built of
dirt and bone and fallen stone,
as Rome laid burning in my room.
Author notes
a breakup poem. what a surprise.
Please tell me what you think
Comments
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There's just something about your word choice that pulls me in like quicksand.
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