• Marge Piercy

Marge Piercy, three poems


In the end, only you

We have loved so long and usually

well in lives that bump and collide

head on at times; at others glide

on polished rollers in well oiled

intimacy. Love is the engine

that propels us out of bed

into our busy days swarming

with tasks like angry wasps.

You still fill my eyes totally.

Your face is the coin of my

life; I’m imprinted with your

body like a gosling following

its mother. You’re sex to me.

You’re comforting as warm

toast. Our minds play tennis

slamming ideas across the net

of possibilities. I’m fond

of others but you’re love

to me, that place, that thing

I lacked till I became us.

I’m here; she isn’t

At certain times of year

I miss you sharply, the week

after the 4th when you always

were here, holidays you came.

In certain places I miss you

like a knife slipping so blood

trickles out: certain streets

where we shared apartments,

places you lived alone later,

a path we walked to the ocean,

galleries you dragged me to.

How I would love that boredom

again to be with you. Secrets

we shared with no one else.

Histories over decades, lovers

husbands gone and you remained.

No more. Nothing but a dark pit

where for long our friendship

gave out a quiet persistent

warmth like a little sun.

As I try to imagine it

I consider my own death often.

So many friends have stopped

and the world went on turning

and kiliing and giving birth.

People talk about a good death.

I try to imagine how that might

be. I always have much to do.

What of my work will survive?

Does it matter? Each night

darkness takes us, sometimes

on gaudy voyages we still feel.

Sometimes we wake and can’t

for a moment remember where.

The paths we walked or ran

in sleep are washed away as if

by a storm when bronze doors

of the sky open wide with

the crash of thunder and rain

pours down so hard nothing

can be seen but its hard fall.

To imagine nothingness

is the gift of mystics, but I

am too earthy and pragmatic

reluctant to say goodbye

to sun, to snow, to trees

my love, friends, my cats.

Crafting words is still my

job but soon I’ll be let go.


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