Horrified by my sin and her
(she was the whole reason for the sin),
I decided to be good; said goodbye
and in my long, pleasant punishment
wrote to her as I knew her to be,
and in this exercise, found my poetry.
Impossible, I knew for us to meet,
sweet the secret, the secrecy, sweet;
my writing had the urgency of understanding,
passion, penitence, hope, even the occasional sting
of rebuke. I could say whatever I wanted,
but it was poetry for the penitentiary.
She could not forgive me
and therefore it was pure, it had to be pure,
it had to be poetry. I learned what poetry meant
in only being itself, as life became
my long punishment.
I called it “pleasant” above. It really wasn’t.
I gleaned this insight, too, which only now I glean—
obvious—and yet I hope readers will know what I mean.
A lover truly wants someone who will not want them
for reasons unconsciously practical,
leading, of course, to tormenting heart ache.
Beware, beware. No matter what you do, your heart will break.