Clearly, it is not sin that we inherit
From Adam and Eve but tragedy.
Tragedy of silence, tragedy of a fall
That seems delicate, endless, oceanesque.
One August night, by the table limned
With warm lights piercing through
The amber of beer bottles, I confessed
To some friends I haven’t seen
That old movie they extolled rabidly
Like a little spate of storms.
“Prepare to be in love,” declared one
Who believed that the fate
Of constellations never die
Once tattooed on our skin.
But I have always been in love.
In fact, sometimes I think you are,
And would remain, that old news
I’d want to hear all over again.
I have to be honest. We all should.
And I have to be silent, too. We all have
That singular tragedy we are too willing
To take. So I’ll save the sad lines for later.
For now I just need an affectionate cat,
I just need to set the table tonight.
And finally, this time, not with you.