Admission
#2 of Poems
Yes, I do poetry on the occasion.
RIP my old friend.
Here's a good one: I cry without catharsis
within the white spaces of my day--
the lone car rides home,
the intermittence between college classes
and the open garden where life grows
and grows, seemingly from dirt, water, love.
How is it then that I lost you? I see you
in too many empty places: the rug
at the top of the stairs, the worn grass
beneath the apple tree, the phantom warmth
where you curled between my legs
for sleep. Oh, it gets better: some nights
I haul myself to the outside wounds
of starlight, demand an answer from God.
I won't lie: it's crossed my mind, smothering
away the sobs between the hearth-brown blanket
a shade away from yours. It no longer cradles
your smell--or you. Just this pathetic man
that steals away a moment to dwell
on his failure--embarrassing, right?
I picked you first. Held you. I let you go--gave up.
Watched your eyes slip into that hollowness,
that permanence, as you slumped on the vet's cold floor,
something growing inside of you that shouldn't--
the assistant passing me a tissue box
to plug the leak that now drips so cleverly
when no one's around to hear or see.