The Letter I Never Send
       

always begins in error—dead for dear,
fear for terror, panic for dread. I mis-

use his moons to speak our violent birth
because to fill with fear is not to be

afraid. To anticipate danger is
not a sudden & uncontrolled punch-

to-the-throat response. It's just in my blood
to footwork circles around the way two

rocks cut like pocked hearts, embracing one red
force, can orbit at such different speeds,

always turning away. The night you left
so close to moonrise, I anchored myself

to that last sky, staring into the sun
until the day had become an x-ray

where cumulus stilled & our moon sutured
itself to our lake like light from both ends

of a needle, piercing the same fabric,
living twice & dying once. Reflection,

though, is still just one bright point parted. Love—
so easily wounded. So quick to wound.

To cherish, to treasure, staring with deep
affection is not departed, over

& out, absolute. I'll always tether
my desire to stay broken to you.

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Copyright © 2020 Lisa Fay Coutley All rights reserved
from tether
Black Lawrence Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission