“I am trembling in this presence of your hate.”
—Jean Stafford
Names are sacred—
even to those who
hold nothing sacred.
We use them only
for others, it seems. Other
names are placed
in the open
for everyone to see.
Yet, between us
we have reduced
each other to
the barest minimum.
We wonder—
do we know what
our avoidance does?
Do we measure
the results of our
protestant distance—
our awkward attempts
at affection
or longing?
It is so easy for you—
it’s in your blood
after all, like
hereditary murder
or alcoholism—
to inflict destruction
and call it something else—
something innocent-sounding
and almost gentle.
Let’s call it something—
this cold distance between us.
Let’s name it with a name
we refuse to call each other.
And when we do,
it will take on essence.
It will be what we call it.
And we will find ourselves
whispering its name
to ourselves
in those nights
when sleep ignores us.
Saturday, February 28, 2009
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