N.a.u.s.h.e.e.n.. E.u.s.u.f
Chalk
How can I not resent the felt tips
that glide across the glazed surface
of the whiteboard's enameled exterior,
fluid and graceful as a dancer on ice?
Call me old school if you like,
but I don't run dry in the open air,
or rub off with a tissue, or fade
with use. I've got grit and character
and resistance, unlike those slippery
dilettantes. There's something primal
about white marks etched on black,
something unmatched by the ephemeral
doodles of dry-erase markers. I hark
back to counting cattle on cave walls
and trying to make sense of the cycles
of the moon, to man's first scrawled
attempts at art and myth as he tried
to create something that would last,
to assert his existence against the
darkness, unknowable and vast.
Infidelity
The art of losing isn't hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.
--Elizabeth Bishop, "One Art"
Strange how it's almost no surprise to find
the photos stashed away: the familiar face recast,
the vapid smile of another, their arms entwined,
the flush of forbidden lust, heady and fast.
You've always been the strong one, he used to say.
But it was filled with the intent to be lost,
like childhood homes and friendships gone astray.
Things will come to pass as ordained they must.
Still, you can't help but wonder how and why,
though it hardly matters--you are free.
And when he returns, reluctant to meet the eye,
you regard him not with anger, but pity:
the face you loved, the eyes you thought you'd known,
it's no disaster, this love you've long outgrown.
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