What Begins Bitterly Becomes Another Love Poem

The earth has a taste for us, in its unknowing

appetite there yet resides a hunger, incompletion

that draws all life to its dark self. What, then,

shall we say of the flesh's own desire, distal

thumb-brush at evening? There is nothing to say,

the vowels cluster uncertain in the beautiful vase

the throat makes, fricatives corralled behind

ridge of gum and bone-splinter. Flesh and earth:

fire is an illusion, to which water is the antidote.

The day was a bright one, there seemed no need

to move about with mirrors, the usual circumspection

and indirect approach. The abundance of small life

argued some measure of clemency, likewise

the Jerseys lowing in the paddock breeze, tender

shoots of cress and sweetpea spiralling upward.

But fire is a cruel hoax: now you see it,

now you don't, the object of your affection

cast in carbon on the hard ground which will,

in time, receive. Roadside the irises bloomed

two or three feet max above soil's surface,

rough tongue resting lightly on each leaf, each

violet exclamation. In full sun your hand guided mine

to the wound. A small one. Water and blood,

like the nurse said: prestidigitation of the body.

We stood without shadows on asphalt at midday.

What we call patience is only fire again, compressed.

I remember: your face flushed, stray petal lodged

in the damp whorl of your dishevelled hair.