B R I A N   H E N R Y
__________________________________________________________

FOUR POEMS

 

 

Us / Two

 

Unless the time spent speaking across faces
was wasted, the part of the evening where what's worn
matters less than what's fallen to the floor
stumbles into Us, the fissures
wrecking Us last year
a story between Us in this new year,
the pain, yes, still there—
where it begins
Us ends, and because it begins always and everywhere
Us finds Us usless,
fluttering where Us were
and finding end after end after end,
exhausted from what Us once would have called a search,
this act of looking without seeing
(May I borrow your glasses? May I
have a sip of your wine? Won't you
fuck my face into the floor
tonight?)
an act Us would prefer, of course,
to ignore, or at least ridicule for its cross
purposes, ultimate uselessness.
Whatever Us bites or tugs, the old pain persists—
the new pain only distracts, it will not mask.
Dig into the bone to locate, distress
beyond the skin: Us needs to go deep
to unpack the pain wreckaging Us,
unravel the blood and torn tissue,
distorted disc and infect, the whole mess,
and set it in again, all fresh.

 

 

next

 

 

[ page 1 of 4 ]