Love Poem

by John Logan




Last night you would not come,

and you have been gone so long.

I yearn to find you in my aging, earthen arms

again (your alchemy can change my clay to skin).

I long to turn and watch again

from my half-hidden place

the lost, beautiful slopes and fallings of your face,

the black, rich leaf of each eyelash,

fresh, beach-brightened stones of your teeth.

I want to listen as you breathe yourself to sleep

(for by our human art we mime

the sleeper till we dream).

I want to smell the dark

herb gardens of your hair--touch the thin shock

that drifts over your high brow when

you rinse it clean, for it is so fine.

I want to hear the light,

long wind of your sigh.

But again tonight I know you will not come.

I will never feel again

your gentle, sleeping calm

from which I took

so much strength, so much of my human heart.

Because the last time

I reached to you

as you sat upon the bed

and talked, you caught both my hands

in yours and crossed them gently on my breast.

I died mimicking the dead.