Haunted by Wakefield

Your absence does not Pierce, 

nor ache, as it did.

Raw wounds have, over time,

healed, the rough scars 

interspersed against soft tissue.

I read Hawthorne’s “Wakefield,”

and within, I found a sentence:

“It is perilous to make a chasm in human 

affections; not that they gape so long 

and wide–but so quickly close again!”

I don’t think about you, like I did,
except in quiet moments

like this one. 

I don’t wake to check

for any means of communication:

by phone, email, text message,

the message system of a game 

we played, a letter…

I don’t check to see what time

it is there; 

the timezone difference

doesn’t affect me.

You can deny that this isn’t leaving,

if you like. 

Your promise still lingers,

a pale ghost in my bedroom,

a weight pressed

on the foot of my bed,

which I kick off.

I smudge the room,

and exorcise your worthless word

from the air,

for that is all it is now: air.

You might as well be Wakefield,

that man who sought thrill,

then became thrall, twenty years,

to sickness, in his mind.

Wither away, and may your words

come back to haunt you,

instead of me.

I will heal, 

and think of you

nevermore.

Complex Oedipus

Oh, how she held him in her arms,

tighter than he’d ever hoped.

Secrets pass between their lips, 

press together, parting,

hungry mouths that find each other

in the cloying, empty dark.

There were none closer in love,

unbreakable maternal bond bent,

breaking a social more,

morality, out of the question.

That touch he longed for as a child,

sent far away, and starved for love,

now attainable.

No wonder he shudders as

her fingertips caress his skin,

as she kisses his sweaty brow,

or wraps her arms around him in

such a way, he feels it makes up

for all those years without.

The question was never if he knew,

but whether or not

he wanted to see it.

He did not.