Beginnings-- A Poem

There is a girl on Robins Street
who sits in restaurants at night and laughs.
It is her way of keeping in the pain
that spills from her like the insides of an over-ripe peach.
But I am the silent one.
This story stops here.

The dogwoods are blooming
their Christ flowers out along the road.
Prostrate yourself before God until your knees hurt.
Roll rosary beads between your fingers like little angels.
But I am the unbeliever.
This story stops here.

Somewhere out there
is despair.
Well, we've all heard this one before.
This story stops here.

What do you want from me?
I am copying my beginnings in piecemeal;
You're not the only one out of order
and waiting in line.

I'm sorry to say
that I've forgotten how to do this.
Words don't have much meaning anymore.
They are bruised, left behind
For my unworthy pen.

Getting back in the habit
Is like writing on a frosty window—
Your fingers get cold,
And your efforts are nothing in the end.

Forever-- A Poem

Everything is bitter against my tongue now;
The air is acrid
My fingers go through yours as though sliding through a ghost
And the only thing I can hold is your memory
[it is so cold here, in the aftermath of your
monosyllabic half-silence.
I still hear the warmth your voice once held and I wonder
why things change and the best always
fade away]

I have clung to the thin strands of woven hope
fighting to see us in the tapestry of stars.

You braided hope into my hair like the stems of bright flowers
now dying, now lost, like sandy footsteps against the incoming tide
and I remember the words you branded on my heart, your mark kept close
against the beating in my chest
The pulse sounds like 'I love you';
But the ocean says 'goodbye'.