My wife, a psychiatrist, sleeps
through my reading and writing in bed,
the half-whispered lines,
manuscripts piled between us,

but in the deep part of night
when her beeper sounds
she bolts awake to return the page
of a patient afraid he'll **** himself.

She sits in her robe in the kitchen,
listening to the anguished voice
on the phone. She becomes
the vessel that contains his fear,

someone he can trust to tell
things I would tell to a poem.

x

Was your voice an illusion,
That haunted me, like a ghost?
Was your touch just the morning breeze,
That tickled my eyelashes and woke me up?
And were your eyes just puddles,
Left over from the rain,
That dried out from the summer sun?
Because it was like one second you were there,
And you were anything and everything,
And all that was in between.
I could see you, and you were the moon.
And now it looks as if you’ve disappeared,
But I’m still here,
Clinging to the ragged ends you’ve left behind.
So were you ever there at all?
Or, maybe,
You were just a fragment of my mind,
That shattered when you left.

The only lipstick fit for real woman is
The glorious gore-red
Of her hearts' blood,
Painted with trembling fingers parting
Too early, of course,
While the parting still pains.
For remember, when love is dying
Nothing can save it
No sunsets, no flowers, no forest walks
No quantity of spearmint candy
No smiles, no coffee, no cigarettes
Even old jokes or magic words
Like "remember, the first time we…"
Or "do you speak Dutch";
No freesia candles burning
No cranberry lemonade, even with love potion
Can mend it.
No sewing our clothes together murmuring,
"Follow me as the thread follows the needle"
No wishing, no crying,
No phone calls,
No desperate words of love,
Not even if you both hold your hands
Conjuring last spring back;
Not even marriage,
Not even that.
Only your heart's blood can keep
The rose alive for a while
Over the dark frame
While the black-and-white photograph
(Pity that flies don't respect it)
Fades.