An hour choking at the compassionate basin
coughing up the vinegar of your indifference,
pen an ungainly stick insect that jolts and poses
on the leaf, leaving behind its pinprick holes
and black tar droppings.
Your saloonful of buffalo girls are
making a mud-wallow of your business--
broken bottles, shots at midnight, the clumsy winding
and unpicking of the bandage, the childish rush
to clean the wound,
needle threaded with a flame
to poke white hot into your swelling
bringing only tainted blood and no relief.
There's no hero dawdling home upon
a handy wine dark wave, no velveteen nurse
to blot the nightsweat from the page,
no diagnostician or connoisseur of blight
to assure you fatality is a condition
that with proper care and rest
may show improvement.
There's only one who loved you once
and whom you've since
taught better, and no one here at all
to read a letter
~January 2015, rev. February 2015
Process note: I have added the subtitle (from/to self) above to clarify the intent and the point of view, ie, the 'you' here is the writer. I have reached the point where I am through with rewriting and editing this for now, and the poem still apparently doesn't make itself clear. Apologies, and at some point may revisit to do a better job.
posted for real toads
Kerry's Challenge: Is Love a Tender Thing?
Kerry O'Connor (Skylover) asks us to ponder some of the more obscure corners of this thing called love. Or even " to write to the theme: Love Thy Enemy or Love is The Enemy or Love, Despite Your Enemy." This is a poem about love and the inner enemy.
Image: A Lady Writing, 1665, by Johannes Vermeer
Public domain via wikiart.org