Under the Moon: An American contrapuntal



Photo by Diana Parkhouse on Unsplash


I prefer that you are not angry with me,

I am not a slacker or a malingerer

With you I can be honest, I have a problem with my DNA.

The genetic malformation makes my life a heavy globe

to carry. Do not walk under my feet. Give me space.

You can be very funny - with your cutting wit

Funny enough to dissolve most men — like sulphuric acid.

But not me. I do not play with words.

So do not blush when I say this: your presence is like a languorous breeze touching the sleeves of my shirt.

I like that you are with me as I become more ill

We embrace each other calmly. We do not need hell-fire sermons.

Instead you read Bleak House or Whitman's poems out loud for me.

Each word is like a kiss. A tender kiss.

You are gentle. There is no anger in your brown eyes, flecked with green.

I lie here thinking in vain. Mainly of the past.

We do not mention illness. Neither in the day nor in the night

Being alive is not like being in a synagogue or a church.

Life lacks the necessary silence. - but we can still sing

Cling to each other as music plays.

Nobody sings over us: we sing for ourselves.

Nothing is in order. Nothing is resolved or solved.

You hold my hand while I sleep.

There is a calm rarity in letting time drift away in this way.

We wait for dusk.

Thank God. I am sick and not you.

We both have our hearts, our minds, our souls, some little time.


◄ i.m. Paul Leon

A continuing chaos: An American fugue ►


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