If I have loved, it is mostly
because that is what I have
called it.
The night I left, you pressed three
scars to the inside of my wrist and said
It will be different with you gone.
Later I marked time by their fading.
But it was lazy, making you beautiful
that way. I was reading words
backwards—lover, almost
revolve, almost
evolve,
and I couldn't believe in things.
The magnolia
makes me cringe: the perfect cup
of its opening. Its center
the deepest color. I love—
I love it—
but the mind,
Mobius-stripped,
unhinged, and unhinged,
is substituting.
Labels: Corinne Wohlford Taff