These are the things that are called my hands--
so wearisome they are.
Their only desire is to touch you,
but how can they?
You are vapor in a sieve held by a ghost.

These are the things that are called my lips--
such a tiresome pair.
Their only desire is to speak your name,
but how can they?
Curs cannot sing nor do starlings say the Mass.

This is the thing that is called my heart--
singular in certain light, seen through a particular lens.
Its only desire is to mean something to someone,
but how can it?
It is a poem spoken at an impossible frequency, a dead language a sleeping lover
.........whose face is obscured by the moon.


hedgewitch said…
The Muse is a harsh mistress, or is that, the mistress is a harsh Muse? Words can't touch this one, so I'll just say, your bitter wine was my medicine of choice tonight.
HermanTurnip said…
"You are vapor in a sieve held by a ghost."

That's genius on a cracker, that bit!
Anonymous said…
I especially love your last six lines. This is a powerful piece that gives voice to silent pain, longing, and sorrow.
Sioux Roslawski said…
I love the last 6 lines as well, along with the "You are vapor in a sieve held by a ghost."

If this is bitter stuff, bring a whole bottle to me. I'll gladly guzzle some down...
Sherry Blue Sky said…
Wow. This is stark and stunning and sooooo moving. Brilliant writing.
Carrie Van Horn said…
Love every line.....pain and loss so beautifully expressed here Shay! Certainly a new favorite for me!!
Fireblossom said…
Please pardon the last three lines being bolder. I was trying to get them indented, and it isn't easy, or I don't know how.
Mama Zen said…
This is so good that I'm not even sure how to begin to comment. This is perfect.
Kerry O'Connor said…
I love the listing of parts, as if each one has betrayed its owner by consistently yearning for the one beloved she may not have. I'm a sucker for poems about unrequited love but this takes the idea to a knew level in the last four lines.
Cloudia said…

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