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Wednesday, January 26, 2011

SOAP OPERA LOVE, January, 2011

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January, 2011

Piqued, the morning she moved out
I gave her back the photographs.
Let this thing of ours become distant memory.

A top-notch beauty, she's sensuous,
Smart, thrifty, and disciplined in her work habits.

But she does not keep her word.

After our first year together,
(With literally hundreds of communications then
Back and forth between us!)
In a call to voice mail,
She poured out her suffering heart,
And confessed that her former boyfriend,
He had physically abused her.

It was during the course of their longtime affair.

I remember Princess Diana explained
A third person had spoiled her chance for happy marriage,
With us, the same, this man’s specter, a constant presence.

I shall not forget she cowered,
Readying to walk out the door,
Childlike, fearful, shoulders slumped forward,
Eyes to the ground, she replayed,
I must guess a previous experience.

I did not raise my voice.

Were that not revelation enough,
She admitted, shortly thereafter
To eating disorder, 'a form of anorexia',
She called it. So at root of our affair
Lay poor self image, somewhat explaining both
Her being with me, a man twice her age,
And that other, five-year romance
With a beast, a criminal whose coercive
Words and deeds proved his love was true!

Later this week
From a spot above the head of our bed,
I'll take down her Grandfather's painting,
– A birthday gift from her to me --
Icon-like, it portrays the infant Jesus,
Who is held in his Mother Mary's arms.

I’ll return it with her gift of the Lord's Prayer,
A hand-colored photocopy of a document,
Though adopted from modern language and character,
The letters composing it
Mimic an old Swedish, Gothic script.

We have it tacked on the wall,
It occupies space directly next to the refrigerator.

Does she believe in God? I ask myself.
It's early morning and I am tired.
Yeah, but I still would like to know.
She's sick; she doesn't know what she believes.

I have a big blank spot in my schedule.
I feel bad all the time.
I don't know what to do.

What am I without her? I wonder.

Can't I – I mean... Is there
Any way I could make her better?

I feel like shit.

I want to get up from the keyboard
And go into the kitchen and weep.
I may never speak to her again.

I loved to sleep with her,
Hoped she would stand next to me,
Become loving companion, a wife.

Instead I got her boasts,
Sadly Pyrrhic confidences about her imminent victory,
She vanquishes the ghost of her former lover.

One day she came to me at work,
Asked me to step outside, and whispered
How at 4:00AM that same morning in our bed,
In our home, she recognized her failure,
The fact she could not give herself to sex, or love,
Would ultimately mean his deviltry triumphed.

In reality she had lost the fight.
The terror was ascendant;
He stood beside our bed.

But now a fool is talking.
I am the one, screw loose,
Who hoped we might write love songs,
Which themselves become legend,
Who wished the kind of love, no restrictions,
Limbs askew, monkey love, she and I
Bound up in a passion limitless, a universe,
A thrilling heaven, like some Islamic vision
Whose paradise has eternal, physical bliss.

By God! Given over to this physical ecstasy,
That happiness and children be our bounty,
That we might enjoy peace,
And our love attains power of example,
It brings cynosure, light for the ages.

No! Intimacy failed us.

She lives in drama,
Where terrible wound reopens, Fanelli's, Dojo's,
And the Tavern on Eighteenth Street,
Each a scene, time, time and time, again.
She enjoys the nightmare theatrics,
She eschews healthy flesh,
The pain of the past captivates her soul.

I am afraid. The demon drives her.
And now, when all is said and done,
He alone is her dream lover.

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