The Woman Who Lived Her Life Inside-Out

Spoken Verse Poetry

The Woman Who Lives Her Life Inside Out

It doesn't matter.
She will find a way to
forgive me.
After she finds a way to
Accuse me and a way to
Establish my guilt
She will find a way.

We walk along the rim of the bay
San Francisco airport is in front of us.
Across the placid face
Of the marsh water a Heron glides.
It's elegant snake-slender neck serpentines.
We are connected by this, she & I,
Like magnets with our repellant
Poles turned mercifully away.
She reminds me that in one
Blinding bright winter moment
In the long ago
I gave her something though
She can't quite put her finger on it
She feels, never-the-less, thankful
For that intangible-tangible
Forgotten thing.

She tells me she feels as though
She has been shot from a canon.
Her life flying by her & she, like
Fodder that can only be perceived
To be a complete single thing
By a gestalt of faith, is slapping at
Events like a dreamer fumbling
The dreamed.

She tells me of the Impossibility of Silence
Of the cloying needs of others and their
Need to know it is not their fault.
It can't be right after all
The separation
The gap
The angle that this is about
Her and no one else.
She deserves a chance for it to
Be about her
And no one else.
It is not selfish
Quiet is not selfish but it is a
Solitary prize and
Solitude is a threat known only
To the seeker as a joy. It is an
Anguish to those who feel it
Within their ability to grant or
Withhold.

She told me he left his wife for her and
She felt herself exceptional fruit. A queen
Beheld by a court of one. Hatched from a
Shell of homely ambiguity to a
Nest of silk and languor, the lulled
Splendor of the fooled.
She told me of the blanket she saw when
She was getting the groceries from
The trunk of his car.
Plaid, folded neatly, tasseled edges.
She told me of envisioning that
Blanket snapped open under
The warm sun &
Spread beneath a tree on a soft
Sheet of grass. She said
She didn't know whose ass it was
But it wasn't her ass on that blanket
Under the warm sun.

She was the only one I ever
Met who continued to say she
Loved me, to elucidate the reasons
With no thought that it was anything
More than a confession of what
She felt, imposing no
Obligatory reply.
Aside from her no one
Ever told me they loved me
Without expectation who hadn't
First given birth to me.
It is not an abstract form of love. Not,
I love you but I'm not in love with you,
But a love that remembered the
Murmur of my heart
The reverberation of my voice
The obtuse angle of my brain.
Once she loved me she never stopped.
I don't think she could, only in the sense
That any one she ever loved
She loved forever.
She had no idea or other
Facility for falling
Out of love.
She never thought it was over,
Never tried to forget. To
Her it would be a crime to
Relinquish the depth of her
Passion over something as
Mundane as not being
Loved in return.

She found a way to forgive me
The woman who lived her life
Inside Out. With all the
Labels showing,
Her stands of love like light
Woven trough her hair.

Category:

Entertainment

Tags:

• poem
• poetry
• verse
• oral
• spoken
• love
• hope
• dispair
• ennui
• anomie