Some thoughts on detachment by John.
She holds and twists her long telling tale
of tangled and torn-at knots: blue ones, red ones,
yellow ones, green, her nails worn to the quick
sorting the strands of the rough, tough fibers,
tiny dark stains bled into the ragged ends.
Blue ones, I think, for the oceans of ink wept
and yet to be written; red ones for the nights that
the sharp-tongued are out, and yellow for the spot
to stand firm on. (The blow, it’s certain, is coming,
yet you stand there just the same.) And finally
green, dark green, that whispering green,
that green-green germ that grows inside you:
the one you eat whole and alive, or it eats you up
from the inside out—the one you want so very much
because you planted it there just for you. That one.
As much as it is to take her hands and gently warm
them to a stop, I don’t—I won’t—I can’t. They are
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