The Innisfree Poetry Journal www.innisfreepoetry.org by Susan A. Katz THE LOSS Who pays the price for all the wounded Years? What happens to warriors when all The wars are lost or won? What is the cost To heroes whose names become a lapse Of memory on the tongue? Who cares For causes when banners lay Forgotten in trampled mud. What good are causes now time Has emptied you to silence, filled me With a thousand small regrets. I could have held your face Between my palms, stroked Your eyelids as they closed Against the light; I could have whispered How scars would fade beneath Sterile layers of night; I could Have asked forgiveness and in return offered Never to unlearn you, to sing you Like a marching cadence through the hollow Victory of the years. OBVIOUS DEATH She was a moth, skin gone Dry, delicate wings breaking The air moving Nothing going Nowhere. It was this She had become when the storm Of her years shattered what was left Of memory into a million Pieces, when all she had was a tepid smile To tempt a partner To her side at Saturday Senior Dances. She loved to dance, loved The ritual of soft chiffon, Silk lacing her afternoons With adolescent desire, shaking Dust out of remnants Of old dreams. When they found her Stale, limp as last night's Corsage, they closed The report tersely, "Obvious Death." As though anything Was obvious passion In the pasty smile when four Young men came To lead her in a last Waltz, obviously cold Flesh warmed By the tenderness of any One's touch. Such girlish pleasure In so many hands Fumbling for a pulse, the turn, The dip, the lift, the flare The down beat, feet Learning to dance On air. Copyright 2006-2012 by Cook Communication |