I once wrote
a poem for a friend’s lost marriage,
the hot kisses of temptation that chased love away,
she, a small horse bolting from the herd.
And one for another
whose lover’s kiss of betrayal
landed her not one piece of silver,
not one memory of comfort.
There was another about my own young love
and what we held close
dying in the summer, unnoticed.
This one was funny. It made
with surprise at its
final sentence of reversal.
I’ve written poems about sex, about death, about
sonogram pictures. About tears
about rage about tiny
green lizards tasting
and bee laden hummingbird feeders.
You know. Innocence. Experience.
There are too many about Goddesses. Especially
the ones that taste red fruit, find it worthy of winter.
And so, trying to sit, and write about
the loss of a friend’s mother,
Trying to find comforting words
something to soothe the tears, the need to push away
knowledge of being the root, now, no one else
above to shelter (us) from that last long breath.
Only the sky, and clouds, and a moon that is still there.
So. Instead of something needful,
I find lost poems, like a little lint in an old coat pocket.