The Sickness

In youth when the sickness took hold of me it flattened my soul drained my bones pulverized them to grey dust gnawed my heart with its jagged fangs with its shameless devouring this cruel creature it wore me out crippled me weakened to an invalid I was already waifish and docile it melted the skin that clung meekly to my bones dry and depleted, my voice diminished to chalky ash, my heart emptied itself of blood there was only pain and hollowness I imploded with love

Now, in midlife— what a happy fool I’ve become new waves of yearning, yes But I grasp less hold them more lightly the wisps of longing like a dusting of pollen that wafts onto my open and unclenched palm like dew that clings to my hair strands droplets of sweet agony dripping off a pine tree after the rainstorm not clutching the warm, silver beads but letting them linger on its needle tips with benevolence I luxuriate in my love for you hold it close and tender as a nestling bird all lucent skin, blind panting and feathers such a ridiculous robin, I am all bright and earnest red-breasted singing throatily my song of gusto, of fervor you humidify my thoughts images of your face the skin I cannot touch lust and purity intermingle like honeysuckle, drunk with its own milky ardor love springs from the rubbery leaves of April the silken, wet flowers of ecstasy

I burst with love as the earth with its beloved spring what a wonder – our lives yours and mine we live among the blossoms under the gods of the trees amidst the songs, always the songs we yearn for each other, in our solitude beside the vast and reckless river churning, green and vigorous yet silent, unspoken it is ravenous like our minds like our bodies for each other crumbling, spurting, blooming, decaying the earth trembles about us the sickness of love – it colors me now I am awashed in it, enamored by it I welcome it through my doorway it embraces me, but does not consume me

joy and pain intermingle, still birth and illness, yes but joy – it is mostly joy that now remains