Love I

Tell me how I’ve come to be like this,
my love, writing tortured prose,
expecting resurrection
just like that.


I am not entitled to the gods,
nor is it a right of mine
to keep you as I do.


The greatest sign, most
emblematic emblem
of affection
is to cling
by way of lenience
and calm.


I have, thuswise, resigned myself
to losing you forever.


Over the hill in the distance
which precedes the path to me,
pipe-smoking penman
at the door, eyes trained
to notice you, your body
climbing the stepping stones
and mounting
into my consciousness anew,
fresh like summer harvests
or the anvil-chime of the church bells
an Eternity away, I see you now,
again, as safe
and yet as questionable
as you shall ever be.


It is solely for the reason and the fact
that I accept that you must go,
and write myself obituaries
with the brittle shards of my pencil
cloven by misuse and
proper use alike—there are still pieces
with which to tell you
how I care, still
fragments of a man
to whom you return
every day—that you come back to me
glinting in the eyes, and laughing,
so preposterously happy
that the mourning heart
in outcry and in pain
is left choiceless and saved,
for it tastes again,
as doth the grass that blankets
all inhabitable places, populates
the dead face of the Earth
with vibrant colour and tenacity,
the dew of godly Mercy,
water of departure, wet
as Spring is wet, drenched
in the flood and rush
of reclamation
made possible
only by loss.


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Endless Writer © Ata Zargarof 2020

BC, Canada