Thursday, August 2, 2012


(Image: Heart of Palm by David Saltaire)

I see your poor heart
bleeding, beating, torn
underneath the opaque skin
of your words.
and there’s that one word
a dry patch, whitened and dull
itching, marked with desperate nails;
it needs healing.

There’s only one cure
for the pain of such scarring--
you shrink from it
because all cures can potentially, sting
but you need it.
it seems fiery and distant
but it’s closer than you think,
it’s better than you know.

Although you may have to go far to find it
blooming from tiny leaves of green
it grows in airy soil
and, god know, it’s very rare--
well, when you finally get close
it will open like a soft white rose
and you’ll see your own face
staring back at you with shining eyes
and that’s where the balm is.

(Notes: written in response to another person's poem. The poet wanted feedback. Looking at it again, I may have been writing to myself as much as to the other person.)

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