(22 February 1819 – 12 August 1891 / Cambridge, Massachusetts)

A Poem In Which She Remembers

'We were not lovers, we were love.'—Jeannette Winterson

The woman you once knew
will not own up to her face.

She'll tie her hair in a topknot,
guard its million tangles, skip
kohl that once defined her eyes,
forsake the gypsy jewellery, milk
cigarettes in her mouth, and stop
herself from dancing in the rain.

She'll curse her restless anklets
that break the silence of cruel days,
bury herself under a blanket that
betrays the shame of night hungers,
and sleep herself to a dream
of waking by your side.

She'll write you the daring first lines
of long love-letters she will never
send, struggle to prevent a poem
from forming within her mouth,
and in its place, feed the promises
of your kisses to her eager tongue.

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Comments (6)

The Lord wants reapers: oh, mount up, Before night comes, and says, 'Too late! '- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -A defining couplet. To follow is to serve.
Great appeal to work and to serve; very eloquent.
In the valley-land! ! Thanks for sharing this poem with us.
In God's ripe fields.....thanks for posting.....
It ends with thought of God.Following that (light) if finding HIM in a valley land where twilight is very dark due to it being covered by high hills.
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