hey, psycheI learned there’s nothing more shaming
or as memorable as an intimacy
unreturned. And turned, therefore,
to the expected silence of a page,
where I might simultaneously assert
and hide, be my own disappointment,
which saved me for a while.
But soon the page whispered
I’d mistaken its vastness for a refuge,
its whiteness for a hospital
for the pathetic. Fill me up, it said,
give me sorrow because I must have joy,
all the travails of love because
distances are where the safe reside.
Bring to me, it said, continual proof
you’ve been alive.
from "Turning to the Page," by Stephen DunnI couldn’t wait. Could you really blame me?
But it was a mistake not to wait. I should have known it would be.
There is no one like you.
I suppose learning that, knowing it for the certainty it is, is worth something.
But I always knew it. And I know it now still.
