Suckle

I want to superimpose your
nerve cells to form patterns
on the couch, on our bed,
and in your eyes – to crawl
into your space, open the
doors both small and large,
and quietly hold your hand
as you abjure the weight of
the before. Frustrated and
forlorn because you will let
me touch neither latch nor
hand, and above all else,
deny both my line of sight
and longing to nurse.

Here in this warm crook lies
love and asylum, if with all
gentleness you rest your
head, as arcane experience
is more treasured than the
self-extolled deeds of an
outwardly appealing boy –
the pet that is only loyal to
its master to stave off the
perpetual fear of starvation.
For the eyes of a dog are
not really earnest, but have
instead evolved to pander
for their very existence.

I’m left to plant my thoughts
in empty verse, obscured to
all but me and echoed only
by the sky – because you
asked me to. An alarmingly
familiar hollowness of arm
and bosom has led me to
question the very meaning
of acumen and of fulfillment
when you’re not here. For
what is a life lived without
meaning and connection?
Solitude appears safe until
you discern that it isn’t.

© 2008 Marcy Stoeckel