Unbound by Meaghan Eliot

Even in our sleep, pain which cannot forget

falls drop by drop upon the heart,

until, in our own despair,

against our will,

comes wisdom

through the awful grace of God.

– Aeschylus

I couldn’t care less about his art.

When his cello pulls me into a different space

I remember there were other strings between me

and the man who, for a while, decided

to ruin everything (though you only recognize disaster

after the fact), like reaching through a piano

to pluck the strings. Deliberate.

I dreamt of him with her: His sweat

on her breasts as he heaves and  plays on her

like an easy sonata; underneath, she moans for more.

He keeps on giving just enough.  

If I crawled between them, would they notice?

I’ll be cruel and tell the truth. He never said “love”

to either of us. He started a note

with a look – the slightest nod.

Categories: Issue 2 - Spring 2012, Periodicals, Poetry | Tags: | Leave a comment

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