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FollowIt snowed last night. The cold creeping, insipid in the dark, through the quilts and the tangled bones of memory reawakened. We gnawed on the marrow of old wounds. Shivering.
We don’t have quilts.
Or memories that we share.
Or enough silverware anymore.
In the cold and toxic dark, our words ripped through each other like angry animals desperate for sustenance.
I love you. Art matters.
Where the f*** did all the forks go?
I am thinking about minimalism. Stripped bare. Bones, invisible in the dark.
Letting go. Holding on.
Amor
Poverty and lifestyle were not literally part of the poem. However, they might be taken metaphorically -- poverty of the spirit and a lifestyle where nothing matters enough (or some things matter too much).
This poem was an attempt to reduce one of the more difficult moments in intimate relationships down to the essence. Why are the forks missing? Why are we fighting? Why is it that we both remember the same thing differently? And, ultimately, what is it that matters in this moment? Can we hold on to our relationship and still manage to let things go?
Ron