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Poetry By
Rose Drew
For Rose
But when will it stop hurting
she asks
always the first serious question
not to involve
flowers
service
urn versus box.
Clear pure eyes
so often paired with
smooth calm brow
but now eyes damp, hollow
papery skin thin and dry
despair gathers her brow to furrows
It's a low tide
I finally say,
that wave by wave
gently moves the shoreline back,
until you look up and think: Ah.
The tide.
Or high tide: the water that laps sudden cold
across toes, arising imperceptibly
as growing grass, as a rising moon
Or, I add,
analogies in full bloom,
It's that headache-
the one that lasts for days.
After a while you think, Oh.
It's gone. I wonder when it went away.
Only the absence
once complete,
registers
She knows,
clever well-traveled woman, she knows.
But intellect isn't heart
reason does nothing for lonely rage,
measured plans will never kiss you
passionately
good night.
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