This Curse of Love
I remember the root and the ruin.
It slips into quiet moments
when I think I’ve forgotten,
curdles like a summer’s day, takes me
back to my beginnings.
The curse of love is unrelenting,
loss runs through it,
an unwanted vein.
When God and nature mate, the soul
comes into being. I feel its cruelty
and look back to the waiting.
My errors are still unwritten,
my shape unmade. I ask for one thing,
beg for his return, but my father
never came. I was force-fed Pluto’s gifts:
hell is colder than you’re taught.
I learned its language like a demon,
where it might lead,
first the frantic search,
the restless pounding of the heart,
the waves that took me out and
crashed me back to shore,
until one choice stood out,
starker than the razor’s art.
I saw a spiral path, but only one road.
I do not dwell with those who
choose the world — there is nothing in it.
Loss is my bedfellow, heartbreak my home.
In Truth, there are no parents and
I am no longer looking.
COPYRIGHT Simon Heathcote
