Copyright © 2002 Bob Dornberg
(after a first line by James Tate)
Love is not worth so much. I regret everything.
Me, tunneling my way toward oblivion.
As he turned back, stars flew.
Hell's air rank on my skin, and he,
above ground, weeping the notes
of the living. I regret everything.
By dawn, we would still be touching.
His come in my hair, the sweet dust
of our fear abated, stars flew
through the window to warn us.
Morning crawled up the wall, but his singing
was more seductive than life. I regret everything.
What is there to forgive? That his lyre
would be my end, that the lilac-scented earth
would see the day stars flew
and open its bowels to embrace me?
His shadow marks every brimstone wall.
There is nothing to forgive. I regret everything.
Copyright © 2002
A graduate of the Bennington Writing Seminars, Elizabeth Knapp is currently the Poetry Editor of Pif Magazine. Her work has appeared previously in DMQ Review, The Drunken Boat and 2River View, and is forthcoming in Cider Press Review.