Found Discarded: A Love Poem, Questionably Addressed.

The Greeks believed
that a human being
is one entity unseamed at the spine,
opened at the breastbone, parted at
the lips, which is why we spend all our lives pressing
together at the hips, at the fingertips; our tongues
locked like doors.

Which is why we’re always shouting
at strangers, asking, “Are you the other half of me?”
Because we remember being bigger than this,
better, brighter than these beaten-up, broken-down
counterfeit identities.

We remember
love

Still, what if we’re wrong?
What if our error is in the interpretation,
in the idea that a
heart is only halves
—The Greeks fucked like gods.
let’s not forget that—
when the truth is more textured,
layered with
parameters and protean variables:

A heart may hold one love for a lifetime,
cradle it until the frame grows cold,
or it may filter through a hundred in a season,
A heart may love in an instant,
without reason, rhythm or momentum.
A heart is gorgeously unpredictable,
precariously and phenomenally unstoppable.

Whatever the explanation, I
will not complain.
Not when such complexities wefted
the cosmic poetry that
put into motion the events that led me to
the worship of your kiss,
let me believe for one breathless
moment, this life could border on divine.

(Editors’ Note: “Found Discarded: A Poem, Questionably Addressed.” is read by Erika Ensign on the Uncanny Magazine Podcast Episode 21A.)

Cassandra Khaw

Cassandra Khaw writes many things. Mostly these days, she writes horror and video games and occasional flirtations with chick-lit. Her work can be found in venues Clarkesworld, Fireside Fiction, Uncanny, Lightspeed, Nightmare, and more. A Song for Quiet is her latest novella from Tor, a piece of Lovecraftian Southern Gothic that she worries will confuse those who purchased Bearly a Lady, her frothy paranormal romantic comedy.

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