It’s no secret that I take after the confessional poets’ model, and this opus on love and loss is no exception. Later tonight, I’m going to burn a slip of paper that lists all the things I don’t want to carry forward with me into 2013, and what pains me most in this poem will be on that list.
moraine, n. /məˈreɪn/
1. a ridge, mound, or irregular mass of unstratified glacial drift, chiefly boulders, gravel, sand, and clay.
2. a deposit of such material left on the ground by a glacier.
Moraine
I have been displaced.
You shook everything loose. All
mirrors tease wholeness—behind
shelves of self-medication,
the smeary glares of barmaids—
most melodies are leaden—
swords and knives—and a barbed wire
lyric twists ’round my throat and
chokes out what I once loved most
about cheap musics.
Your fingers coiled tight ’round my
wrists when your instinct took hold
so that I couldn’t leave you.
You pressed your thorny will deep,
’til the head was stripped.
And whereas I was complete,
cracks formed, ’til I fell apart.
Nerves are all numb, ears
collect senseless sound, and tongue
converts nourishment to ash,
bone, and sand. I’m scant much but
a useless audit of time.
Light comes, night goes, and
I mourn for my greatest selves
shed on the floor of your cell,
all of them swept out on a
tidy Friday. Bruises should
shift—brown to gold—but howling
Gods of Retrogradation
have chained my splintered fragments
to a spectral band of deep
blue that just won’t heal.
Happy New Year! All the best to every last one of you that 2013 is your best year yet!
♥ EAB