by R. Dean Ludden
Print Save Follow
Recent poems by R. Dean Ludden
Gloria in Profundis
Remembering Miss Martin
On Listening to Bach on a Sunday Afternoon
>> View all 30
It was her kiss
that sent that tiny shaft of light
into confounding blackness where the dead
would hold their rites of cold fraternity—
as if the border of that town were there
to mark a private paradise.
Her kiss, I found enough
to counteract those graceless thoughts
that sweep across the meadow of the mind
like fresh cold winds
intruding on an evening stroll.
I sought her there, of course;
I needed something cosmic,
something of the world outside
to pull me from the pit
of disillusionment. In schools,
the cornered corneas swam past
and turned away.
She stayed behind.
I think she knew
there was no waking in the laughter that she heard—
no sighing softness under her caress,
(should she be bold enough to touch cold flesh)
and so she took my hand, and then she kissed me!
Though I knew her not, her warmth, the fullness of her lips
brought joy beyond exuberance, for then
the bistered morn in radiance could magnify the sun,
while she, and I, and all the blessed earth