New Poem

When I sit down to write these days, most of what is coming out is pain. It's ugly, bitter, and wounded. It seems good to be getting it out of my system and onto the page. But as I share these poems here, please don't confuse the poem with the poet. This is my pain, certainly, but I am not my pain.

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Love Poem

I wash my hands several times a day
of late, for most of the last week,
trying to cleanse the stains I sense

but cannot see. Really, it's more
than my hands, my whole body, my skin,
every pore, everything, feels stained

as though I had been pushed from a ledge
into a boiling vat of blood. But
the blood is only a symbol,

the hot liquid remains of a life
stripped of its form, reduced to its base.
And really, it was never a life

simmering as symbol, staining my body,
my hands, my heart. No, it was love,
simple love, and I will never be clean.

Tags: poem, Love Poem, poetry