5.21.2021

a reluctant backward glance

Love—its long spoon, its promise, and its threat— 
you won’t go empty, I shall make you eat, 
            I’ll fend off death— 
apostrophizes an averted face, 
retreats with a reluctant backward glance. 
 
Agitated wings 
flap at the cold containment of the moon, 
            fluttering 
batlike, bewildered out of a dark cave, 
and bump themselves on light’s solidity 
 
as on an arm outstretched in utter trust, 
patient as trees, pouring itself until, 
            ethereal, 
it has been drained of every precious cell 
to share with who may happen to be dry. 
 
A house of appetite and sustenance 
links, shelters, and divides 
            inhabitants who feed, 
work, walk together and as in a dream 
undoing the loose bonds of need float free. 
 
You and I, walking toward this silent house, 
encounter no warm gold 
            ring of lantern light 
such as draws chilly travelers and moths. 
No lamp burns here but blood, 
 
mortal fuel consumed at steady speed. 
Ghosts in disappointment flit away, 
            hunger unsatisfied. 
Dim in the room we turn to one another, 
open our lips, and speak 
 
a single word and raise a mutual finger. 
Into such stillness no new thing should spill, 
            muddy the mirror 
we turn our double back to speechlessly 
and sit and eat our fill. 
 

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