rip me open to save my life.
Tear through the skin,
abdominal muscle,
a layer of fat,
the body's defenses.
What is your name?
Not work,
not Bach,
not logic or order.
Your name is Sylvia,
or Wendy, young,
younger than I am now;
I know your name,
but I can't see your face.
I remember a redbush, burning in May.
We walked without shoes in the sun by the school.
We held hands then and again in the fall.
You gave me five poems and left in December.
I remember your words and that's all I remember.
No comments:
Post a Comment