that thing of love, the nest
where treasures cherished most
are held in pillowed comfort within
a gauzy, delicate womb; a place
where life grows, at least in dreaming
we press each memory and
why-was-it-not-a-memory and
memories wished in a dim horizon
into the soft folds of flesh and spirit
held together by threads with muffled beats
we long to draw from that trove
words from treasures, dainty and sweet,
darling and fragile as fine china;
murmur tinkling, tender sounds of love,
a bubbling brook over gleaming stones
but our inner wary wraiths
drive gilded affections to the dark
corners of what we hope [dear God} to be safe;
keep that precious thing the thing it was
when it was deemed worthy of keeping
keep fingers from tarnishing
the silver shine of moments shelved,
and the tripping and dashing
of fragile futures on an uneven floor,
reducing it all to a broom and pan.
moments when our womb of would-be
boils and bloats, cramping and constricting,
to crush precious pride and joy to pieces;
transmuting the substance of love
to a more cutting and killing kind
we toil to our own dismay and dust
to keep that precious thing the thing it was,
avoiding appraisal from another’s eyes,
gifting treasure in tumbled exchange,
and mending shards for stronger bond
a tilting of air 