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Kristin Lindgren

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Centreville, VA, US

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Amor Incogitatur

by

Kristin Lindgren

Last night to you I gave my heart;
I played the doe-eyed damsel's part
with hints applied as appliques
that decorate each word I say.
With I the girl and you the boy,
I'm properly both vague and coy
and artfully still translucent,
revealing bare my true intent.
Our thoughts are ordered, expressed so --
Love has fragile rules, you know --
and woe
be to those
who break them.
I stole the show
claimed the script as my own
spout words of love and devotion
while running
in the opposite direction.
We covered up the
awkward pauses --
did you see me check my lines? --
with romantic notions
provided
for people like us.
We love
and remember
not to ask why.
I talk about
us
for if it's just
me
then I must know
you
and you might not be who Love says you are.
And you know,
they tell me
absence makes the heart grow fonder;
yet when you're absent,
I defy!
I deny
the bonds of a carbon-copied love --
I decry
the fate
that awaits
those who mistake
a stumble
of chance
for Love's approval.
And then you're back and I love you and deride my rebellion
as frivolous caution that I take
as if it puts my heart at stake
to idle in the comforts of
an ageless, faceless, endless love.

An Ironic Appeal

by

Kristin Lindgren

Come live with me and be my love
and dwell in Lovers' bliss,
where meaning depends solely
on the pursuit of a kiss;
The knowledge we once coveted
as crucial to mankind
will bury itself in
the deepest recess of our mind,
and an objective search for truth
could not matter to us less,
for our honeyed world of flatt'ry
leaves us blind to all the rest;
inside a world that changelessly
revolves about the sun,
we each revolve existences
about the other one;
And though the governing of seasons
over us may have no power,
a simple word misheard
can haste our noon to midnight hour;
The simpl'st stated logic
will not persuade us to believe
if it better suits Love's purposes
to openly deceive;
A day considered wasted
in our lives before each other
we'll glorify, if granted
it was spent with one another;
Come live with me and be my love
and nonsense cease to see
in a world we did not know we had,
the world of you with me.

Drunkard

by

Kristin Lindgren

It was sad enough to end each day in tears;
my eyes heavy with sleep,
my mind heavy with dread,
my soul heavy with the wearisome burden of such solemn sobriety.
It was a devilish trick, an iron ball-and-chain,
that mocked my progress each day
as the darkness of the night reminded me of my suffocating solitude.
Inebriated, I recklessly swooned and blindly toppled into my bed each lonely night,
and—gooey-eyed, foul-breathed, lightheaded—I awoke to the sun’s light kisses each morning,
Another young hopeful, fresh in my naivety.
And yet now, although I shield my eyes from gleeful daylight
and hear friends’ cheerful voices flit freely from around the corner,
Now I am intoxicated—
my drunken mind grapples with their words and the smiles on their faces,
desperately I struggle to imitate the incomprehensible frenzy,
I long to end my deliberate madness and instead catch their disease.
I am the drunkard—I drown before noon.
Yet it affords me such sober clarity
I cannot comprehend the raging of the sane,
who trample, unawares, atop my depressed spirit.
I resign myself to the tap—
ever-flowing, never slowing,
as the tears that stain my cheek.