Apr 4
It is grief, I'm sure of it, it is grief— she says, swinging her arms.
I look at her bright eyes and trusting
smile—then I look again.
I know it in my heart, she says.
She is small but larger than life,
and I wonder—how much room does her heart have?
Is it full of grief?
If so, where does she keep me and my longing?
She takes a sip of red wine,
and I notice her pretty lips.
Oh, how tormenting it must be
to be such a fine, lovely creature—
to speak of sadness,
to spell it out,
to give words, and meaning, and shape to suffering.
I wonder if a lonely man can do such a thing.
I’ve seen men cry, yes—
and I’ve seen them clench their fists,
break porcelain cups—
and break themselves.
But I’ve never seen them become poetry.
