“…how you first met the one who means the most to you…”

by kvennarad


“Why is the measure of love loss?”
Jeanette Winterson, Written on the Body.


I didn’t, I haven’t, I never did (she protests)

in each new moment the ‘most’ changes;
with mood, with weather, with time of day
and shade of light, with temperature, with
hungry or full, with sad or happy, with a
picture suddenly presented or found;

moments, we are made up of them, each
moment a dropped stone, each with its
outward ripples, each ripple crossing a new
ripple and jarring with it, each stone dropped
father upstream until the bulk of the ripples
are all downstream, kissing the relict banks;

the one who means the most is the one
I haven’t met yet (she protests) and she shall
be young, wrapped in a blanket, beside a beach
bonfire, looking dreamily out to sea even
though it’s night and she can’t see anything;

I’ll write poems to her (she declares), on her
back in lick and cast sand; I’ll fall asleep
against her, wake in the morning alone, finding
she has walked off, leaving me with ash and dawn
– she will have joined the downstream ripples,
the stones resting on the bed, and I will have
reached for the hand of that monster, loss

(she protests)


full-moon-icon-hiThis was developed from a comment I left yesterday at Bittersweet Turns.
@Marie Marshall