There are secrets we confess only to the marrow of our bones;
Secrets we keep locked within the cells of our bloodstream;
Secrets so deep within us, they become us,
You are beautiful and shallow and unbroken.
I will not ask you to fall in love with me.
They become us- our bones, our ashes, our dust-
Like beggars and thieves and Ophelia,
We drown in the depths of pools of our own making;
You are sunny and devoted and untainted.
I will not ask you to dive in with me.
Wise diviners shall know our sin by
The taste of the corn raised above our graves.
I will not ask, then, to be remembered.
No comments:
Post a Comment