IN REMEMBRANCE OF PASSION

February 13, 2017 / John Grimmett

The earth shook
and we said some words
in a language we thought we both understood,
and at the end of it,
I forgot I was a poet,
not because it was forgettable,
but because the way the light
floated down between the birches
on that gray morning,
I no longer recognized the earth.

It was not a place I could see anymore.
I could not hear her song.
Sounds no longer danced lightly on my earlobes,
and my two fingers on her pulse
were reduced to a memory
of what I swore was there:
when I first blushed
at the sight of her strapless dress
falling slightly underneath her left shoulder,
when I tasted a ripe peach
only awaking from a dream, hungry,
etcetera, etcetera, etcetera.

There is an absence of words.
I cannot shake that she is only hiding,
yet I suppose
I will spend the remainder of my days,
like a wandering, vacant Orpheus,
looking for what I think belongs to me.

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