New sort of love poem


Love’s fever has burned through: I convalesce.
Drink the thin broth of heart-ease, that was ache,
Boiled from my bones and blood. Somehow we make
something from feelings as they evanesce

as steam. We scrape the scum off with a spoon.
discard, add salt to wounds. The sting’s the cure,
the pain’s the healing. Full of doubt be sure
that in love turns to love, perhaps quite soon.

You peck my pale no longer burning face,
visit with grapes. Suggest I breathe fresh air.
Take me from sickroom. Drive me fast to where
Your small light shows my way to some high place

I see picked out in gold and near-black grays
some promised city glimmers in the haze.


About rozkaveney

Middleaged, trans, novelist, poet, activist
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