What a spring that was
the season that I spent
in the hollow of your bone.
Sweet amputee, how
do I forget those sleeping
days and the sour sweat
of death against the shining
bandage of your smile.
We counted flesh like coins
that dropped from our hands
half spent–so little did you
bleed, so quite was your death.
Sweet amputee, how do I
forget those sleeping days
and the intensity of eyes
that never left my face
except to die unchallenged
while I slept.
What kind of trees
were they that
broke the color–
all tall and green
and dancing
in the slow sunlight
of an April afternoon?
Women in blue
kimonos stood
beneath the
delicate branches
snapping pictures
digital and bright.
Children played,
young mother’s
strolled, stooped
old men finished
with their lives
sat on stone benches.
An artist crouched
in a flower bed
like a wounded animal;
linen canvas stained
with a furious red.
I had come here to meet a
god and found instead a man.
We are not seen by the people we love,
but are loved by the people who see us.
That afternoon,
five thousand miles
from my home,
someone saw me
and asked where
I was from in
perfect English.
rlmcdermott 