New Mirage Journal

No need

No need to tell me

that endings

are a moment of transcendence,

and all that is solid       melts into air;

no need to remind me

of the eyeblink tales of life,

like furniture and fridge snacks that stack up,

then vanish in a flame-lick.

No need to challenge me

to walk the high wire,

or to drag me to a party with all the wrong people,

where men take up space with knuckles on hips,

and there’s barely elbow room.

No need to show me 

I’m in safe hands –

I’ve seen your scar

and know what you’re made of.

No need for you to hold up

a cardboard cut-out sun:

I remember how it looks, how it feels.

Or to suggest

 that I’m more stone than heart:

what do you expect?

I’m still  half a couple from ark days

pickling memories in a jar.

No need to say

that love will return some day

like speech after long silence;

that’s   dirty talk.