ani l’dodi.

November 30, 2013 § Leave a comment

a poem to the wife of my love

because lovers do not write poetry to their wives

nor make love unmechanical-

the wives of our minds are silent with madness, white with impossibility

Hiram’s schiavo greco, or worse, towering

until toppled over, and re-imagined as former ghosts

of themselves. because lovers do not write poetry

to the women who bear them children

to the women who bear scars of loss under spinner bands

to the women who would drown over and over and over in mikveot

for a touch, to women, women

who don’t cry out when made love to silence

is not a virtue. when she writes, her pain is a butterfly’s under glass-

palpable, crushed.

 

a poem to the wife of my love

because lovers do not write.

 

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