Reading these lines in a poem, takes me back twenty years and the pain has not quite calloused over yet.
I called for you, in vain, even using your secret names,
the ones only the night knows:
wind-kiss, brilliant-fruit, dervish-moon . . .
Over and over, I said your names,
over and over until they filled
the wounded air of the car
and when there was no more room
for another sound, they caught and hooked
the ring of the brakes hugging the rails.
The secret names for me are the ways in which I thought I knew and loved, the ways in which I imagined I too was known and loved. There came I time when the incantations and requiems for the past finally ended. Most days are too full of things to get done to even remember the few fragments of that time that still remain. The rustle of freshly laundered white cotton, the smell of Bvlgari Blue that brought on tidal waves of sadness. All finally .gone because there was no more room
Comments