This shadow sees
its breath. From the underground
it comes, first the head, the neck
wrapped tight, eyes to match, deep
as cracked arctic snow. Flame
turned inwards. The neighbors
watch the shadow watch the man
come, then go. This will be the last
time. No one sees the shadow wrench
itself from the flesh, the breath stop.
(II)
No one stands at this window now.
The curtains drawn. Doors taped
shut, the oven open, folded cloth
a pillow. In another room, upstairs
an open window. The sound of children.
Winter sun. Cloaked mirrors. A book.
Sylvia And I Disagree
She tells me I haven’t lived the type of life
she has. I tell her I’ve been
to Harvard Square. She tells me I will never
understand love. I tell her I have seen the face
of death. She tells me loving her means I must love
Ariel too. I tell her I have always
been faithful. She tells me I am
not tall enough for her. I tell her when
we are naked and I am on my knees
in front of her, I will be just the right
height. She tells me I don’t have enough
words to speak her voice. I tell her
to spit into my ear, I can’t hear
spirits with their mouths full
of blood. She tells me she doesn’t
know why she likes me. I tell
her it is my illusion of idealism,
love and morbidity: All the women
I love are dead. She tells me to stop
reading her letters. I tell her
she was waiting all this time for
someone to send them to. She tells me I
don’t understand her poetry, why continue
this hopeless quest. I tell her her love
drives me into places where I might
never go. I offer her a bouquet of black
roses, I offer her my beating heart. She
says, I am going to let you do this
to me, she takes the roses, wraps her
other hand around my heart, squeezes.
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