What's so precious
you hold on so?
so terrible,
you cannot tell?
I asked you this: and now I know
Up, past your breasts
From the cup of your navel where I rest my chin
I track the glistening rivulets of pain
Laced mascara black from tight shut eyes
Note that the sketchy hint of crows feet
Are engraved now deep as your pain.
Once poised and ready, so ready,
I lie, still, between your open thighs
Softening, but listening hard.
I listen as you moan and mumble
as you sob, shake and stutter your shame.
Supine, I hear you tell a two man tale:
one too lacking skill, persistence or intimate guile
to make the loving leap from friend to lover
the other, though he seeded twice, between times
flung his fumbled failures salted with sour words;
a log, he called you, frigid and a freak.
Your words break apart and segue into shudders
and muttered expressions of apology, self-sorrow
And a heart-wrenching chorus of shame, shame, shame.
I lie, silent, and watch your flame-hot eyes overspill:
at least I know this time your hoarded torment,
know the torture, know the term.
Vaginismus.
Ugly word, uglier agony,
and consequences ugliest of all.
This is a time, I tell myself,
For fleeting floating finger glides,
Tongue-tip trails, and, beyond these arts,
a time for gentle words and tender silences.
I remark, preamble free, the sweetest curve
of breast, just there, and decline to acknowledge
your surprise and ignore an apprehensive
stiffening of thighs as I venture lower.
When I tell you that your source of pain
is neat and pretty, your sobs cease
and, disbelieving, you suggest
that surely, surely they’re all the same.
Not so, I reassure, no more than lip lines,
sweeping hair or singular eye-lash swirls.
Tongue again, delving deeper now,
questions if it’s nice and, further, which side’s
more sensitive … is it this ... or this ... or this?
I didn't know I had sides, you wonder,
as I upward slide to let you rest your head
and snuffle on my chest,
holding tight and holding on
Hold still, my love
and I will open you slowly, slowly:
for I will never be
a helpless hostage to your past
or a pitiful prisoner of your hapless pain.
Comments
1 - 8 of 8
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This is very ,very beautiful Gud luck in the contest !!!!!!!!!!!!
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Thank you so much
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Tenderness is indeed a part of any relationship, so this piece touches one in reading, thank you for entering and good luck, Josie
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Thank you for the encouraging comment.
Mike
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Wondrous wordpaint, meic, in the art of your eye, the agony and tenderness touches to the core, and I can't say more than it is a rebirthing worthy of gold and wings. ~K
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Thank you so much ... I agree that tenderness is such an important ingredient in such a relationship - I simply don't understand people who can't see that.
Mike
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This is an utterly gorgeous, rich and sensitive reply to such unimaginable depths of sorrow, Scribe. (Aaarrrggghhh, the worthless cads that came before!) One could imagine healing beneath your artistic hands. Good luck in the contest, my Friend.
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The insensitivity of some men is staggering ... and I'm sure they lose out ultimately. The poem is an answer to a poem written some time before - when I didn't know the answer:
What's so precious
you hold on so?
so terrible
you cannot tell?
Hold back,
if you must,
though I would share the pain
as well ask my portion of the joy.
Hold back,
if you need,
though I would never claim
a greater part than you would give.
Hold back,
if you fear,
though I am often told
a lonely hurt hurts more alone.
Hold back,
if holding holds you still;
Hold back,
though holding's holding still;
Hold back,
and while you're holding on,
hold on to me,
and I'll hold on.
Thank you for your insightful comment
Mike
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