On Blackend Wings

I don’t remember the anguish

of love, now that I’m dead.


At fourteen

two dozen evenings

ended in a fortnight’s mourning

tracking my tears with Motown

records, dropping one at a time.


Was that love?


The man I got with child

in 1976 made me sick.

The man I married loved me

almost to death.


So, were they love?


There were tears on my pillow

love might have lived with us

for a while –

beginnings are more fertile

when nesting boosts

karma-sutric fun.


Was that love?


The 80s were hotter than July

till Frankie said Relax.

It’s a kind of madness

forgetting passion

losing the sense of the exercise

that consumed us.

Memories rewrite themselves.


Is that love?


On blackened wings

I fly the past

searching for evidence

of concrete romance

but it escapes me

so I must trust that

the only witness to love

is faith.

The End

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