The Regression of Silence

Beginning:

In love with you
such that I don’t talk about you any more.
No one hears your name from my mouth.
You are as simple as my breath.
Even if I seek a test, you are sure to return.

In love with you
such that I am left wondering why I wrote
this poem. Only if you pardon this effort
will I seek no more and sink to rest.
And a newer world may appear for me to learn.

Middle:

I gave up. I called you today
after a week of nothing said.
I hoped my one word answers may
convey my disinterest instead.

 

End:

Many men have marveled
at the forgetfulness of a woman;

how lovers who gifted their nakedness
night after night can suddenly dart
like tiny villagers in the wake of a bombing.
And then nothing is the same as before,
such is the claim of war.
Then she pretends to be a closet,
a shrine, a lamp or the grains
which align on wood, in concentric patterns
till no one can be sure
whether she grows from the center
or shrivels towards it.
Either way, she finds it alarmingly easy
to dry on another arm.

And the man remembers…
while she perfects the lie
that makes a woman shy
under the gaze of a past lover.

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