le poème

July 27, 2011 Candace Morris 6 Comments



Nightshade
I have in me a sickness
that doesn't allow me to see
clearly.  Or makes me see
too clearly the sadness
of all living things.

Recognizing the death
before glorying in the life.

The end always taints the preface.
No matter how happily
ever
after.

He drove us home Sunday.  I leaned out the window like a new puppy.
Trees black against summer's dusk.
Sometimes I swear I can see the earth's curve
as clearly
as the sinister hip of a whore lying on her side.

Naked and Vast.
Suffocating hope.

My body could not contain the Bliss.
I was petrified to identify it
Least it run rebellious from its namesake.
But I did.
And it stayed.

We've been getting along better these days.




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