after Dianne Seuss

I who have loved the practical
have fallen a bit out of love
with the practical.

I had never
looked with hunger upon a man’s back
in a dark room. My first mistake
was believing what I did not want
could not destroy me.
Last Sunday I realised
the terror of an open mouth —
what I was capable of
with your fingers circling my neck.
You have to tell me, you said
not knowing the extent of my unknowing.
I could not tell you anything
except your name.

No, not only that —
I also begged. It’s too much, I said.
‍By this I meant dismay had gripped me
by the hair: I knew now the sweetness
of subjection. I could not reason
with that knowledge, and sensing this
you said, it’s me.

You. My whole body unlocked,
maddened by twenty hard years.
I can’t live up to the girl
in your teenage memories.
That girl had her eyes closed
in order to survive, and now
I have survived nearly everything.

Have you been happy?
I have, and I think you have too.
Yet here we are. At Communion
we both turn our knees and let
the holy pass. Neither of us
has due disposition to receive,
only to give. And the sun continues
to pass over us like a mother’s hand.