If any of you have ever read The New Yorker then you have seen the poems they post randomly throughout the magazine. Most are great, all are well written... and tonight this one just got me.
-written by David Semanki
Night
You became real to me
the first time you were lost to me.
You were dressing
in front of the bedroom mirror,
studying your reflection
as if looking for signs
of what
passion had accomplished,
the idea of need extinguished-
damp skin of sheets; the rain lifting;
your bare shoulder blades,
their deceptive strength.
How could I not have been moved
to grief
to witness
your entry back into the unpardonable
structure of the present?
Love of my life, this was years ago.
Should it matter to us
anymore? Or that when my eyes were closed,
my left ear resting above your heart
heard: Careful. Careful.
-written by David Semanki
Night
You became real to me
the first time you were lost to me.
You were dressing
in front of the bedroom mirror,
studying your reflection
as if looking for signs
of what
passion had accomplished,
the idea of need extinguished-
damp skin of sheets; the rain lifting;
your bare shoulder blades,
their deceptive strength.
How could I not have been moved
to grief
to witness
your entry back into the unpardonable
structure of the present?
Love of my life, this was years ago.
Should it matter to us
anymore? Or that when my eyes were closed,
my left ear resting above your heart
heard: Careful. Careful.
