SHE

by

Frank Valentyn

Verbal attack, emergency
in the accusing fingers, angry hands
she does not like that poetry, she says:
why refer to me as a She?
This ‘She’ is too anonymous
and this reference to ‘She left again’
- doesn’t begin to tell what I leave for:
to earn some measly coin
so that we can continue

I abstained from any pure defence
lamely said that what is read
is hardly ever what is meant
and what meant, perhaps
written for despaired recovery
more than vicarious discovery
of the unintended

She doesn’t lay forgotten hand
of forgiving tenderness
before she goes
a single tremulous kiss
on my absent temple, eyes closed
does not linger
before she goes
neither the warmth or press
of her pliant body
no infinity in those eyes
drives any longer into my gaze
before she goes
no healing touch or whisper
warm sibilance of breath
or fall of shielding hair
enfold me
before she goes
no long-ago’s are recognisable
no longing just-awoken tones
of far yesterdays, dream
through my pain and depletions
stilled waves, moonless ebbtide
suck at eroding shores
before she goes

Twelve poems, I wrote about you!
I insisted, raised my voice to urgency
warned of my impending insanity
but with all my scabbards empty
there was no hint of the poetic
just rankling rattle of defending accusation
competition of dilemma and exigency
and I was alone, still hopelessly explaining
when she had gone

NEXT?
Why don't you look at Neo-haiku. 58.
by: Azra Daniel Francis
from: Windsor, ON, CA

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