Blog March Day 7: She said he'd never leave - Robin Renée
She said he’d never leave
She said he’d never leave
Weaving lives at ninety-five, sweet, sunny porch smiles
now and someday one long arc
of legend, on the mod couch she wove a tale of this union.
She smiled and said he’d never leave.
She said he’d never leave through the calm
hotel suite, bare-bones campfire, hand-holding walk
about town, family-style social creatures living
Grand chariot love
Bright books hauling brain lust, days of art
Occupied, rapt in justice and adventure
And when the coffee is nearly warm, drunk late
just past sticky sweet morning fusion,
he will stay, New Year’s Day, groggy, not quite drunk love
In twos, threes, skin to wild skin breathless,
way past the end of the party
Of course, he will stay
As long as there is the day-to-day, the middle of things
Trees in the neighborhood, Atlantic Ocean cuddled up
in close memory, a part of, apart from this
place
While there is a phone to find, keys to recover,
while there is Sunday afternoon
karaoke, downtime, movie time, time
for costume or crisis
He’d never leave while there is breakfast to be made
and decent clothes, straw man jacket for work,
presentation
He will stay when there is music but he will not sing
He will never leave when there have been storms
He will rake stray paper, branches,
when there are groceries, guesswork, gaslit kids
to shuttle in the rain
He will stay when it’s birthday dinnertime
and there are guests arriving and there are
green paper plates and plastered teeth-frames
He will stay when the clock strikes twenty
years, when being and seeming to be fade
to off-white veneer
as long as there is long memory and fool’s gold
When he fears his own voice above a whisper, hand towel, misfolded
DNA inferior, the table, the tirade, the laundry undone,
the tickets unpaid, solitary labor, when he fears
pleasure, when he asks, post-coitus, did I do something wrong
When the walls are peeling with steely punishment
he turns back with warm milk and a promise
How can I do better, he wants to know
Just beyond the window
open love left on the vine
When there are two furious eyes to scythe
his cracked open soul, probing
unpredictable, unblinking
at what he did do, didn’t do
He is a guilty yolk, there to be
scooped out, emptied.
She said he’d never leave.
When the feces on your floor has been seen
And can’t be unseen
but must not be seen
must be corralled, fenced off, cleaned up
must not be touched
must be forgotten
could be the shit seed
for new life
then
the greatest prayer may be “Loka Samasta Sukhino Bhavantu”
the greatest curse, “As you were.”
Sanskrit: May all beings everywhere be happy and free.
~~~
Thank you for reading and taking part in Blog March. Tomorrow, head over to Defending Axl Rose to see what Jason Wendleton, one of my favorite music bloggers, has to say about the power of music to build bridges.
