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by David Bennett
there was something that I wanted to say,
O, that it would make your fists curl, girl,
your curls gone ga-ga, empty-faced and faceted
across the banners of the room.
there was a thing I expressed so dearly,
held close, the face of a ribcage
adorned neatly on a sweater, the curls gorged
in deep Christmas red and saturated blues.
there was a word escaping my lips when,
all of the sudden, a sort of bird-of-prey intensity,
a sort of debilitating sadness, swept up by the hoof
of time and left to dirty on the kitchen floor.
so be it then, a slight curb of dust and nothing more.
The Oyster Kiln 