—Museum caption on the statue of a female deity, recently
Again this wobbling dread,
this discombobulated pang, as though
my armature’s been bent,
or the scale is slightly different
between my torso
and my alabaster head.
What so upsetting? Really,
this trip you’re packing for—it jars me
less than your insistence
parting isn’t torture.
We touch, divided by no distance
miles can measure.
You say I should relax:
whatever seas sleep rocks you on, my arms
fathom you through dreams
removal from me never wrecks.
And once your travels start,
each night apart
sails you closer home; a journey’s
soonest finished once begun. “When a person
who must embarks,
tears only worsen
the going.” Can being cavalier appease
such sadness? I say your logic sucks.
It sucks my salty heart (no stone,
although until I met you it was marble).
Departure’s glacial arrival
shatters me. I’d meet its blue
expanse with you, and with you
stare it down;
to you and you alone I’d bare a face
sorrow’s freezing rain carves
channels down—but then your breezy stance
abandons me before your body leaves.
Alone, I shiver on
the brink of maudlin.
Still, I’m learning. After all your goings,
I find balancing’s
a skill that practice hones. It’s true my poise
is largely ruse,
dependent
on some borrowed fragment
cobbled with cement, but I finesse
my gaps so they resemble grace.
Even you I’m closest to no longer
notice if my kilter
skews, or the pucker
quivers as I blow this kiss
goodbye from your resolute goddess.