Make no mistake: when you were born,
the world did not want you. Did not
need another with precisely
your dormant talents. Stars
shone of their own accord, not
because of you, as they say
in songs someone will one day play
for you, looking in longing
down at your face as you wish
upon a star in the dark theater,
soundtrack or actress
singing the song of romance,
the way dreamers do.
And the lover next to you
will touch your hand as if
that could save you.
Make no mistake—
consolation ministers false comfort;
the gods will not keep you safe
from this moment on; clever
words are mostly wrong. And though
yours was a difficult birth, no one
promised otherwise, regardless
what the romantics say, the ones who wake
in the wee small hours of the morning
to a reflected face they do not recognize,
receding hairline, body bulges, the aching
lush-life back. The earth
more beautiful than ever. Endangered.
As time goes by you will have a lawn
itself desirous of trimming, mowing, roses
tied back, dug up after the first divorce.
Regardless of a bolt out of the blue, moonglow,
the solid earth temporarily beneath your feet.