These nicks and cuts and stabbing wounds
finally collect and yield their fatal sum.
The big picture at last comes into focus
and the writing on the wall is entirely read.
There will be no gentle hand taking mine,
no warm breath on my chest in the night.
There will be no bonding of bodies in love,
glued together with mingled ejaculate.
The inner child is now in protective custody,
out of reach, out of danger, out of time.
The very fire of life gives light but no heat
as cold smoke rises to conceal me in clouds.
Down deep in the ecology of my blood
there is a new fraction, a swarming toxin,
a plaque that has Medusan scales for kin.
With cancerous multiplication it grows,
attaching coats of armor to vital organs.
The heart has a new skin, inside and out,
that constrains all the soft, giving tissues
in a gradual turning of flesh into stone.
Never will I hear the whole of my laughter,
but neither will I weep the whole of my tears.
About the Poem
This poem contemplates the process of disappointment by which a hopeful heart turns away from hope rather than endure ongoing sorrows. It is about a suicide in the soul.
This poem is previously unpublished in print. This poem was finished May 29, 2003.