There Is A Light.
my heart cowers in fragile motions
by Alison Rosalie
from my quarrelling, side-step brain
and it asks the delicate questions
of a pushover pacifist loving in vain.
and instead of considering the days
that I crumbled under your coercing
it insists on recounting the bedtime tales
when you loved like we were rehearsing.
when I wrote:
spring's grass grew green and stuck to my battered knees
and the universe pronounced herself balanced that day
with laughter as the foreground to the cautioning sound of bees
and the way I could hardly kiss you through a smile that refused to fade.
and the street is so empty my voice can’t fill the space
when I try to sing the notes to describe a lustful rut,
it just dangles in a hollow daze and falls flat on it’s face;
the stillness refills in the street and a twist subsists in my gut.
and I become conscious that my small voice is like my heart,
tiny and fragile and barely suitable to make opinions heard
and though it can sing and croon of love and ache like art,
by itself it argues weak and ignorant, hesitantly unassured.
and it whispers in a quivering squeak,
pleading my lips to caress your neck,
urging my tongue to forgivingly speak,
begging me to have you rebuild this shipwreck.
but my head commands me in forceful tone
insisting I settle and delay for someone new
and though my heart has prevailed in combat
my brain battles brutally
and I won’t wait for you.
(oh, the lies I tell...)