The last time I saw you:
You were carrying a dark green bag
Down the long lane to the gate.
From the fourth floor balcony,
Through the leaves of the trees
And the cries of the cicadas,
You appeared dangerously small
— And much too far away.
The last time we touched:
Our lips parted in a kiss
Haunted by salt.
How could it be
That four years of tenderness
In darkened rooms of private joy
Had come to such an unforgiving end?
Speaking of your father’s leave-taking, you once said:
Death is so horrible that it would be better
Never to have been born at all
— And I knew then that I could love you.
My final crime will be to speak openly
Of things that can only survive
Behind a shield of silent embraces:
Things as delicate, as doomed
As my breath on your eyelashes
While you slept in my arms.
To read Songs about Sex, Death & Cicadas by Andrew Grimes Griffin click on the link. To download a copy, right click the link, and select “Save link as…”