The past has stretched between,
not comprehending, but there
behind the rib's remembering:
enigmas are behind the rib, unknown and curious,
familiar, accepting secretly their power.
The rib's frail lattice is possessed by daemons,
or eventual truth, or a transitory hour.
As buds are opening, unrepentantly
pushing cloistered air,
or the liturgy of saints will raze a tomb,
love breaks through sometimes
that fortunate armor, reason.
Rejection of the myth is difficult
and filled with pain.
Construct me now with tenderness, this moment passed,
I saw, behind your eyes, it will not come again.
© 2010 Charlotte Merrill Jensen
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