02/14/01 8:00 pm
home, San Francisco
©2001 -Anne Marie Powell

drip…
drip…

drip.

Oceans of it.

Going.

Really going.

(albeit slowly.)

drawn out by natural gravity
drawn down by fierce intensity
drawn here with wild humility

drip

drip.

I thought it would
End
with my heart breaking.

More like a…
crack.

(or the sound of wet frog being thrown against a wall.)

Or the sound of me screaming.
More like a…
shriek.
Me righteously indignant
and dangerous with anger.

The sound of its going is none of these things.
(Like when someone pulls the door shut behind them as they leave,
trying not to wake you:
all you hear is
click
And then they’re gone.)

splat

against this
stainless steel.
this turning, seamless wheel.

Forward,
forward.
And lighter for the loss of it.
Gradual but definite
Natural and intricate
Even almost delicate
as it goes
goes.
definitely and absolutely.

Passion I have cradled like a lover
all this time:
I have studied it with fervor
felt its Skin and
Breath against my neck
Tasteditandbathedinitand
wishedandprayedandweptwithit
and as it goes
there is no fury,
oddly,
and no flame.

Just me here, alone
(with my favorite pen and paper.)

I will NOT
let myself love him,
in that way,
ever again.