“Genuine poetry can communicate before it is understood.”T.S. Eliot
LOVER PLEASE STAY
She holds regret between her teeth
like a thread of punishment
she can’t fit through a needle,
and every time she tries to get rid of it,
his face pricks the corner of her thoughts
and she starts all over again.
Her smile was tight,
the kind where her lips scarcely covered her teeth
with eyes wide open like a porcelain doll.
But she was smiling
and that was enough.
(And she wondered if the world knew about the bloody truth
that had pooled in her mouth from biting her tongue.)
THE EARLY DAYS OF WHAT COULD HAVE BEEN
She begins to realize an alternate reality existed
in the space between his hand and her’s.
In another day and in another life,
perhaps their fingers would have met –
clasped tight around the constant utterance of
A terrible kind of feeling is the kind without a name,
the kind that comes without warning
and steals words from unopened lips
and grasps tight barely beating hearts
so you are reminded of the broken shards that never healed.
– they threaten to tear open your chest cavity and lay your soul bare.