susan smith nash
a place we come to when lights burn
like my skin under the heat of your eyes –
a place we sit, drink coffee
see the bristles of some unnamable cruelty
I crave, yet hate
that ambiguous mirror;
Your face
answers me at the door,
your smirk another evening’s greeting –
you thrust into my open palms
roses without the flower
bouquets without the power
of scent, of bloom, of promise
just dry, thorny sticks
to tear my heart
like petals long ago stripped by fear
or memories of better days,
a lost bud desiccating under my bed
faded by the sound of my voice, talking in
dreams
the technologies of annihilation are multiple
these days, and we, like strangers
sit outside and watch the leafless branches
sway in the night’s sighings –
we drink, smoke, talk about nothing
and everything is all right
fading, slowly, from sight.
(3 may 2001)