Marge Piercy, three poems
- Jan 1, 2018
- 2 min read
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.