Heaven, I thought
must be the place
where all those I
have arm-or-eye-embraced
in love
might one day
hold my hand
or touch the
memory of my hair
as they refuse to
do now, here.
I thought too,
long ago
those tiny tears
of loneliness
might, assembled,
rain-wash-bright
some lover’s eye
that she, he, it
might only see
the blur-hazed
face
that lovers see,
without detail,
and understand my
love
and touch my hand
which hasn’t
happened here.
There were, no
doubt, too many
that I loved—It
isn’t big enough,
God’s love, to
hold them all at once,
so how could I?
I should have
settled on only one
no matter who (I
loved them all
I swear it)—I
should have
settled on one
and held him
by the shoulders
and explained
firmly—shouted,
if necessary,
bitten, fought,
hit, held on and even
killed—
it would have
been better
years ago, that
is,
since now the
tears
are crystals, no
longer even
white, that we
must
wade through
here in hell.
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