By J.J. Tindall
HOW COULD I NOT SEETHE?
How could I not seethe
for the exquisite luxury
of your
skin?
How could I not burn
for the fugitive elegance
of your
face?
My manly quest enslaves me.
Ensnared you, scared you,
beguiled you–like
a bitch cobra–
if only for a fortnight.
That’s an English
term. This
is History.
As I wait to die
in failure, fighting
for every inch,
I lie awake praying.
I pray and pray
but God has nothing
to say. No
history.
Just memory:
the scent
from your wrist,
your vicious kiss,
your lemon hair
in the sunlight
at B’Hai
Temple. Two minutes
of mystery, a frontier
of hope, dreams
come to life (to memory
if not history).
Let’s remain
anonymous!
Our memory
equals history.
I
remember.
I
burn.
–
J. J. Tindall is the Beachwood’s poet-in-residence. He can reached at jjtindall@yahoo.com. Chicagoetry is an exclusive Beachwood collection-in-progress.
Posted on February 8, 2008