Plug

I get could get
lost

in you


you're so ugly

you're beautiful

I'll fall into you
and fall fast

for you

you'll turn me
upside down

and shake me
for change

then drop me

so I'll land face down
in the gutter

lapping up
puddles

upon puddles
of street-water

Whit Howland © 2020

Which river to cross -
The shallow brook of faith,
Tepid in the slow run to God, or
That which drains into the oily pits
Of loss, tormented though alive
In sure and certain combustion?

Give me fire and hard current,
Give me love and rounding stone,
Give me rasping scale and snag,
Jagged rapid bends,
And the black swamp moccasin
Bite into my fat ripe shin.
For that is where I’ll meet you.

And what is more sacred
Than knowing true pain,
The poison of it -
The broken limb, the broken heart,
The breaking rind and taking,
Taking that what is broken
And breaking,
Into a broken hand
And tying pain to pain
And thus healing
As long slow scabs
Conceal the wounds.

I will not confess my sins, no,
But burn them in the river to Hell.
I will struggle - with you -
the orange-tongued waters,
Grit-toothed and unburdened,
Dragged a half-mile down,
Until we reach the ashed
And muddied bank and fall
In the gray and muck of living -
Laughing that we tried at all.

I cleansed my sheets of you today
Spread out the sheet and tucked in the corners with extra care
Laid a blanket down, taking a moment to spread my hands across it, feeling the softness
Crawling into it felt odd at first
I knew you weren’t in it anymore
You weren’t wrapping yourself around me and keeping me warm while I slept
You weren’t protecting me from the world around me so I could have a moment at peace
That wasn’t you anymore
So now I have these sheets
Clean, fresh, warm, and not you
What a relief
I pull the sheets in closer, closer
Breathing deeply into them and asking them to keep me warm and safe
Holding me all night while I try not to dream of you