I held her hair for her, and
Found poetry in the back of
Her head where more
Careful lovers
Have eyes.
I cursed the alcohol making
Her cheeks and heart wet with
Painful thoughts without
Root in reality,
But none of
My prayers could turn the
Wine to water, as grapes
Became teardrops in
Her blood.
So I carried
Her to my bed. On the
Side of my king sized
Compassion for old, old pain, I
Sat down and was
Silent until her
Heart followed my lead,
And my hand found the
Poetry, stroking it
Like a parent
Until
It no longer rhymed
Or made any sort of
Sad sense
At
All.