A Plea I Thought To You From The
Distance of Ten Feet At A Party
Marc Laughton
I have to admit that when we speak
there are white petals which come
in sputtering spouts or bouts about things
I said under my breath, under the faint of surprise
that I still care. For you that is, I know,
unspeakable.
So, I split the words—a cleaving arrow;
decisive words. Watch my heart grow roots
under dusty roads that lead circles around
my body drunk with the clockwise motion
of this walking, clockwise is the direction
of a love song. But who might be there to
love you
when your looks are gone? (I watch
as you drink a glass of wine faster than
you would otherwise). Little wonder
that you don’t clasp your stomach and
weep; for twelve days I composed prose
and for twelve more I sat silent,
refused to touch you so now we mend
our bandages to heal those
raw sexual moist gashes
our tongues have made into each other.
But I have wandered and become a dash of
matter, or a makeshift stand-in for a lover,
you hate me for it
in small rages which cloud your eyes.
So, I spilt the words and told you truths
which grow like the beauty of a shell—
random, scattered, and I let your
face dissolve into a bouquet of the finest
war of rose, clover, and lily. From your
throat I see saltwater which created the seas,
THE HONORS JOURNAL 62
your sunken cheeks the barren ground
soldiers are buried in (much too shallow).
You rise and fall and my hands are numb.
If there were a way to yell softly in the unpolished
language of men I would ask for forgiveness
because when you open that mouth of yours
I want to devour all your sadness.
