TO A WOMAN POET THAT I KNOW by Pinkie Gordon Lane.

When you lie again
in the street of forgetfulness
smashed beyond recognition
courting the dark avenue,
when you wake to the alien
walls that do not touch
your battered flesh,

your other self
will fall into the locket
of your mind and wait
for truth

A creature without roots
standing on the brink
of private ruin
your voice will not save you
for you have found the power
of destruction

I weep for your lost
self that stands on the edge
of the terrible wood
whose darkness draws
If I could I would make
a gift: the magic of souls
spinning in the greater center
that place where love meets
merged in the light

I would dispel your personal
and private hell
you, woman: black, lovely,
and lost
you, poet
whose voice cries out
to the silent air
that dissolves you

This elegy, this inscription
becomes the dichotomy,
the oxymoron, the paradox,
the beauty, the strength
of your existence
the destiny of this earth…

Category: Love,