Beauty makes me sad
Makes me grieve
I see what I must leave
From “At Cross Purposes”
By Samuel Menashe
What plates a lustrous thing
will tarnish.
You were the silver moon,
light of my night,
beautiful and remote,
the proof of those landings
catalogued and stored in a drawer
like baby teeth.
I loved you bush-naked
beneath your jersey,
the way we rocked,
slap of skin, song
of hips.
Your tongue is artful
in teasing
and sharp enough to cut me
to ribbons.
Sometimes you wear your ego
like a strap-on.
There were days I felt
well-fucked.
Now wild geese gather under a blue moon
in their compulsion
to fly south.
I don’t believe there is a god
for me.
Small comfort — after death
there is only death.
*September 2012
