I saw my heart in a pawn shop and bought it back.
A bell-sound washed across the clerk, said: Free, no charge.
I cradled my repository close and wept him:
Damn you, liar! Damn you, liar!
They moved the chairs at the cafe. There is a long table there now.
How little it takes to slay an old thought, a memory!
Such gold would melt between cold hands.
I wonder sometimes who gets letters now,
whether you've run out of ribbon yet
on someone else
(oh God, God, God.)
I passed your old flame in the hall
and shared a glance:
you too, me too?
We burned low.
I don't know if your letters smell like you anymore.
I cannot find them.
*
I'm sure they do.
*
The clerk said, A beautiful girl
who smelled like letters
walked into the shop the day before you.
He said she looked sadly around
and walked out.
Damn. This is so powerful. There's a book in this poem. And entire book's worth of story.
ReplyDeleteI can't even express how much I love the picture and the perfect, beautiful sadness of walking into a pawn shop and seeing your heart there.
The typewritten letters. Her smell. The lack of interest in your heart. This all comes from specifics of your life. Yet the specifics don't exclude others from feeling your feelings, and relating to what you've written.
This is your story, and the readers understand that. But in the act of sharing, you have made it belong to them as well. They feel for you. But they also feel strongly a part of it.
Truly brilliant writing Daniel. This is one of my favorites.