The Book of Longing

I promise myself this moment,
The stained–glass murmur of angels, the crisp
Scent of fresh dreams
Turned like furrows in the mind,
The green and growing sorrow that lodges
Deep in the breast. I taste the memory of you
Like an oath on the tongue, like every song
Ever wept into the night.
Don’t look back, my love, don’t think
I’ve forgotten you, only I can’t speak your name
Without the syllables cutting my lips,
And the sound of your voice still echoes
In the hollow place where my heart once lived.
Keep it safe, love, until I call for it. Let it beat
Gently against your fingertips, let it bleed,
Let it bleed a little, and taste my tears
When you lick your palm clean.

Jennifer Crow

Jennifer Crow is grateful for friends whose words, artwork, and photography inspire both poetry and hope. Her work has appeared in a number of print and online venues, most recently in Asimov’s Science Fiction and Mythic Delirium. You can find out more about her current projects by following @writerjencrow on Twitter.

Leave a Reply

You must be logged in to post a comment. You can register here.