The Visitation


rose

 

Gray shadows fall upon my face
Here within this sacred place;
The stone so cold, and roughly hewn
Beneath this waning winter moon

The air is thin and so am I
My heart is heavy, I start to cry
Each letter of her chiseled name
Is lit as though with golden flame

My fingers trace the shallow grooves
As though with touch I could disprove
She is no more, and I am less
Without her voice and soft caress

Bereft and full of memories
I rise up from on bended knee
I place a rose upon her grave
Each petal but a kiss I’ve saved

Now, slowly do I turn for home
Only now, I walk alone.

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The Skirt


red-skirt

 

You laid your plaited skirt

on the foot of my bed,

neatly folded as though

in doing so you could somehow

retain your virtue.

 

In the midst of our fleshy thrashings,

I kicked it to the floor, and you began

to cry, deep sobs that rattled

the mattress springs.

 

I moved, too reluctantly, to retrieve it

but you said, “Why bother? You’ve ruined it.

You’ve ruined me. You’ve ruined everything!”

 

Making love doesn’t always

mean making sense,

and so I threw my feet to the floor,

pulled on my jeans, and looked back,

although I would never be able to see.

 

“So that’s it?” you sobbed.

 

In affirmation, I buttoned my shirt

and turned toward the door,

and as an afterthought, picked up

your once plaited skirt, tossed it

carelessly over my shoulder,

 

and left.