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