August 12, 2011

Amor and Psyche (Edvard Munch, 1907)

I saw you today for the first time since I’ve come of age
and grown into my own colored
and darkly spotted sanity—
Garments that used to outsize me
and have recently become a finished delicacy I can’t remove.


I stalked you, unseen portals to your expression,
Unseen petals on your brow,
To an unknown country you no doubt make
crisp, smoky, sun-burnt, like autumn.
Deeply affecting, lusty like a Bordeaux.
Sensuous as oil dragged wet across a canvas.


Long traveled past how many clear and painted bottles,
and my heavy shoulders now bare,
I stalked you to kiss a ghost.
You were older, not as lean,
and still the distance between us was no more than when
you used to stand over me, dearest, collecting my oxygen.
When I had breathed you in instead,
had sustained upon your closeness,
As I had worshiped every curl of your pen and
the way your words used to tip across your lips and spill out
to my breast, an endless well.


I stalked you out today
but rather
discovered instead my unspoiled spleen—
and the last bits that shrieked in ecstasy and bled violet—
right where I had left them,
In your delicate, passing hands.

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