Wherein I Swore - Poem

Wherein I Swore
S.T. Owen
“In this valley of dying stars”

In your hand my little wrist,
Like some white and broken candle,
Would once bend and it would wait.
But now in this aging light, I have been where lovers go
I have touched the darkened cheek of passion-
And found it rough and old as yellowed paper.
So relax your hard and shaking hand,
My skin is red and raw from burning
In that gentle flame.
Your constant reminiscing
-My young forgotten innocence

. . .

In this night that you are resting, and I
- By the window in your mother's chair -
Can see him, my love from long ago
Carrying in his coat pocket some forgotten polished stones.
I beseech you - ‘Regard my fallen locks of hair,
And see my feet rough and bloody in dance.
Forget the letters of silence wherein I swore;
You kept me safe in a bitter storm
And held me as a child’
-Reading the heavy books
Of love and fear and solitude.

But with the night so sweet and musical, and you
So heavy with the regret
On the vine of your bitter, liquored love,
I leave you leaning on the barren wall and whispering,
"I built these walls thick and strong, so nothing feared may enter."

Then you stand and pour some homemade wine,
And I recall when we laid naked in the silence and the dark,
And you used to say
"What I fear is all I love."

. . .

But now, with your careful breathing
And early evenings,
I will rise and go.
A heavy sigh from you, as I collect my clothes.
And you will say, “You will go like my broken tiny leaf
Falling into the hurried, violent stream.
You will go like a forgotten memory reappears
With the smell of the little withered flower
You found under my bed of rocks and broken sticks.
With all the danger of drowning - of recalling everything
We so careful buried deep, in your damp and empty earth.”
And you will gently sway as I reply
“These nights with you are far too long
For a woman with short hair to endure.
And the nights are too long for these cinders to ensure
The fire of my lips and my loveless thighs.”

. . .

Then I will think a moment alone, and say
“If I am to stay another night,
Take my careful buried skin and hide it from me.
That I may forget the smell
The ecstasy of living.”

And without a reply, we may have us a tender embrace
And a word or two of solitude and old affection.
And if some day I return,
You will not know me though I will love you, still.
And will wear a woven crown of broken twigs,
Hands dark and stained and full
With silk and dirt and stones.
As I dance and recall my careful buried life with you.