Tired of the role of Sisyphus.  You?
Rolling a rock made of conflicting emotions
up mountains where crevices yawn.
Disaster a step away.  So many tears form
and dry, probably turn to salt like Lot's wife
when he made the mistake of looking
back.  So.  Let's say No to love.   
 
First, our affection for children has to go.
All attachment, be it to brother, sister,
mother, father, farther kin.  Friend, partner.  
Time to sand away any and all who have carved
into our hearts.  We do not need the pain
that racks when a curve ball knocks one
down and down.  Vertigo, headache, roiling
stomach.  The letter will come.  Bell will chime,
phone jing-jang an ironic ballad.  Late or early
saps the knees so, almost forced to crawl.
Ribs vise, skin turns hot, then clammy.  Can be
anything.  Mangled, struck, deceived, betrayed
by others or themselves.  Human body.
Mind.  Shock piles loss.  So.  Let's close shop,
shall we?   Latch the shutters, chain the gate.
 
Trouble is, we  remember the smile
she smiled when she was five weeks old.
Her tiny shell fingers reaching, reaching.
. . .his tiny glass stem neck. . .round eyes
. . .watching him grow to an adolescent
giraffe.  And.  Or.  His back curve with age.
And. Or.  Gasps of release around silk
. . .moans and sighs. . .stood and cheered
as he made a 50-yard pass. . .hotdog after
clapping when she won for free-skating
 . .received her Ph.D.  Trouble is, the mole
dotting the back of a neck,  hair above
salt and pepper.  Overnight snow. . .
him straightening himself out.  
. . .her pulling herself up. . .crazy-mad dances,
smoking and chowing down pizza. . .spot
of sauce and gluey cheese started a food fight. . .
flowers he grew. . .that she cried because,
because she forgot. . .wordless reaches
between hands. . .strong leg lost. . .breast
.....blue glow of ebony skin. . .braids down
a back. . .make-up sex. . .making up, period. . .
tears. screams, hosannas at births. . .murmurs by
beds. . .hospitals, hospices. . .weddings,
weddings. . .hug at the funeral. . .pain
of not speaking. . .oh yes, his mashed potatoes,
her creme brulee. . .rock-hard bread . .curtains
he made. . .bowlegs jutting from shorts. . .dos
and earrings and piercings all piercing.   
Scratch the plan.  Risk the look.  Push on.
 
 
 
(c) Phyllis Jean Green,  December 31, 2005