Sylvia

They blame the weather, they blame your sex,
They blame the fox, the hawk, the panther on the stairs,

The demons in your box, the angels that rushed ashore;
They blame whatever black and white they read

And I blame you – not for dying but for the remnant love
You left upon the table. Selfish. I knew one like you

And she too could love, she too, eyes aware, would look
Beyond her abilities although her abilities were

Enough to keep her grounded in fame and excellence.
Your lips curled at such words. Hers softened

Into a heart, fleshy, wanting kissing, wanting words.
I see her picture as I see yours, her sun-reddened skin

Like peppermint candy as she sits in her bathing suit
And soaks up an open field amid the mountains,

The naked light pouring down and trying too hard
To match beauty for beauty, each blade of grass a lash

From her eyes as wild flowers flush the press of her breasts….
Those were yours, too, the pictures I saw, the words

I heard you say. I wasn’t afraid of your darkened light.
I would love to carry on a love affair with you

But you are dead; pushed away from your mother,
Your children, a whiff of gas escaping through

The cracks in the linoleum. The zoo could not hold you,
The forest knew you but not your spirit. The yew

Alone is no forest and yes, I know, the forest fell
In winter, the wind cracked in winter, the spring

Divorced the worst winter ever – and you are dead.
I blame the weather; I blame the sex we never had.

And a table top candle holding proud its teardrop flame.