Monday, October 17, 2016

Just another poem

Aftermath

I don't know.
The smell of your collarbone
wild with life
and a pale coating
of musk cologne
burrow their way
into my own
and stay there
for days, no matter
how much I shower.

I'm not trying
to wash it away.
No, my own odor
doesn't say ardor
the way yours does,
and I am lonely with it,
there, in hot water,
with no help
because I cannot reach
the places you can.

I think I'm in trouble.

I think too much.
When you said, "Remember me,"
I took it too seriously.
Because when all you can do
is remember, it becomes
rumination, and the shrinks tell me
that's not healthy.
So that's me. Unhealthy.

So be it. So be it that memory
clasps hands with fantasy
and skips like a child
through some autumn field
where long weeds
looking like wheat
greet us up to our hips,
graze our fingertips,
smelling like love
and changing seasons.

I think I'm in trouble.  

Copyright 2016, Katherine Gotthardt

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