This just in....

An old friend of mine, Susan, has decided to join us, and shot me some older poetry of hers. Enjoy.


We Will Never Speak of Love
by Susan

When I am sixty – seventy - eight years old
I want still to be destroyed by your touch
and polished by your eyes
and your notes
as you play a violin badly
just to make me laugh,
stopping by a music shop,
my maestro.
And I will still dance in high heels through
October’s brown grasses,
flying a kite in circles
to remind you of the sky.
And you will beg me to speak, still,
of anything
so that you may wrap your dreams up
in a hobo pack
and sling them over your shoulder
as you float upon my voice.
We will never speak of love
like a Hallmark card or roses.
We will never speak of love at all.
And when our children ask me why,
I will bow my head in reverence
and tell them that all sentences have periods
and that you are not words
but breath and blood
and that my marrow fills your bones.