Skip to content

Grimoire

January 3, 2013

1280px-Meningitis,_boy_of_eleven_1911-12

You made a bitter invocation.
In a brittle moment, I must admit.
I’d more than bought the ticket for.
Now, I’m not a man for rain dances.
Not a man for Freud or Jung.
I’m no friend of Jesus.
But, Jesus Christ, the blade and the hilt?
They aren’t getting back together, either.

I deserved to hear it.
And in a way I deserved to see it grow.
You were the first woman who dared to say it.
I suppose you knew.
Smart as you were.
I’d never raise my scythe to you.

I held a blow in that second.
Half cocked fist and bated fuse.
That would have driven you into the earth.
I suppose I knew it.
Before I threw it.
You’d earned your right to blind me.
Now, when we look each other in the eye.
We still need to tilt our heads.
If we still laughed together.
We’d laugh until we cried.

Prick your thumbs, it all came true.
So let’s raise a toast.
To thoughtless riposte.
Here’s to acid and here’s to you.

Advertisements

From → Poetry

Leave a Comment

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: