Monday, December 2, 2013

In Flagrante Delicto

The house
   hums, always loudly now, and I give thanks silently
for this marvel.
We hang with care, the lights, the star, the garland,
        all miraculous offerings.
The house, this year, wrought
                                  with new tradition,
                                                      delicate as your
wrapped in wonderment-
the timing,
the season-matching merriment.
We have found decor,
long shelved need, and your desire sparkles
like the brilliance we've been waiting for and I think
                                                       of the antecedent-
                                                            the crisis
before creation- fleeing and fullness-
weary women for centuries after
just looking for a home.
This year, no different,
providence pended, hankering
for mounted wisdom,
      men to guide.
Your pauses
               splattering a fresco of fiery
hues onto my well
                           laid plans and even so I can't help but feel
I have tasted,
           too, the
So, this year, I will add deeper
                                               rouges, flame to fire, even as
                                                                            I trim
                                                                              the green.
I will host unspoken words.
I will sip from insight's cup, warm as cider,
because just on the border of close, you have
found me with what
                  is yours,
knife in hand, poised to carve,
but I am
                                   not the truth
with intent
              to trounce.
Instead, it is the inevitable
forcing its way out, laborious,
and my heart starves, too,
                    though you cannot hear its weak, synonymous
                                                        rhythm through
                                                              the reserve.
See, I have climbed the same stairs to dreaded attic,
             brought back
adornments, holy,
                too, the same dusty road in plight of night, in need
                  of room.
Issued by sovereign call....
depending now
on nothing.

You can have what I cannot give.

The Sunday Whirl

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