Posterous theme by Cory Watilo

Seeking Closure

The inconvenient memories
always pop up at night,
maintaining a nocturnal
subconscious
existence despite my many
attempts
to smother them
in my sleep.
 
I’d have thought by now
they’d have forgotten
your unengaged eyes,
the pinch of your face,
the silent stinging tongue
and sideways slaps
to the ear, boxing
out the last founding fibers
of love?

It seems an embarrassing lie
now
to say we were happy once.  
It took three
days to consummate a vow
we both made with our fingers
crossed,
not hearts.

So why the constant recall?
What wrong need
I right
in my Borges parallel life?
We walked away clean
rings hawked, spirits freed.
No further exorcism required.

But
etched
and even more vivid
than the ochre outline
of the sun inside my eyes
something lingers
in the secrets and truths
of dreams
demanding I answer to one
simple word,
forgiveness.

~A. Rae Sterling

 

a small pile

I’m a little rusty, clumsy even
as I sift and sort the words--
the diction is there, I swear it
must be buried
 
I’m doubting if I can do it anymore.  Gone are the days when I could pick up and write... well.  It’s a real struggle now; even to find a simple simile that isn’t a cliche is like pulling hairs from your nose (oooh, see, awkward. Not sexy. Not gorgeous dripping prose that makes you want to lick the page). But here I am, desperate to respawn some love affair, nurture the coupling of letters, pull the willing faces into a suctioned kiss with my words. I’ve missed that feeling that comes, swells up warm from your thighs, burning up your trunk to the top of your head when you know you’ve created something--something brilliant, desired, envied, hated, pitied, questioned, investigated, stalked, lusted after from the depths of your lonely, narcissistic pit.  
 
A good writer knows you
have to be able to write
a lot of crap, dig it
out in piles until the blood
of your true gut shines.

 

-A. Rae Sterling