Wednesday, July 21, 2010


A Lost Pleasure

Georgia. It's 6:00 in the morning.
Where are you?
It's been about 10 years or so.
Are you married now?
Did you love me then?
The way that I loved you.
We were friends.

The timing was wrong.
I had a girlfriend.
That ended a long time ago.
And then I lived a second life.

Still, that something in your eyes,
the memory of that brings me back...
eyes that entered into my soul.
& I'd follow your rainbow-
colored pants
wherever you went.

You went to Seattle,
you went to Japan.
I saved all the letters you sent.
So sorry I never wrote back.
& now I can't remember your last name.

The handmade cookbook you made
is one of my prized possessions.
But you didn't write your name.
Only Georgia.
Now I have no way
of reaching you.

Remember that trip we took together?
We talked nonstop for hours.
I wanted to hold your hand.
You were so pretty.
But I felt uncomfortable around your friends.

The couple who drank sangrias.
And openly bathed nude in the river.
And had loud sex upstairs.
While we were trying to sleep downstairs.
I guess they thought I was a prude
or something.

The boyfriend asked me:
"what turns you on, man?"
I was afraid to answer.
Maybe now...
I don't even know the answer.

You were there for a moment.
And you electrified me.
Did you feel it too?

What is love anyway?
If it doesn't go both ways.

It's a lost pleasure.



The bud
stands for all things,
even for those things that don't flower,
for everything flowers, from within, of self-blessing;
though sometimes it is necessary
to reteach a thing its loveliness,
to put a hand on the brow of the flower,
and retell it in words and in touch,
it is lovely,
until it flowers again from within, of self-blessing

by galway kinnell

Thank you Fiona. For being my BUD.

No comments:

Post a Comment