NOT YET LOST

by

Martin Higgins

You are lost to me now,

Mis-filed somewhere in my scattered morning papers,

In each day's thick noon packet, every evening's bundled sheaf,

Of unfinished life, undiminished desire.

Collected, reviewed, bound and stacked by the hearth,

Kindling for an ever-banked fire that burns, but throws no light, onto

My hopeless, night-terror longing for you.

And I have lost your face, mis-laid among the Major Arcana

Of a carefully worn deck,

Moments and high-relief images, flashes, glances, tears, smiles,

The line of your pain, broken small, cast across the face,

That was my sunrise, my moonshine dance, my long-shadow hope.

Lost now in the shuffle of portraits that are - none of them - quite you.

Our awkward bed is gone, eyes locked fast in immediate desire,

Soaring need the risk,

Shedding what laughably little separateness we held onto.

Trembling vulnerability the fear, that nothing would remain of us,

Consumed by unslaked loneliness, when we could not grow into,

The lovers, we knew we could never be.

And the simple trust we denied each other,

Soul-shy, scarred, and crippled,

Forever pummeling ourselves for no crime,

Greater than craving love and to be loved,

Seeking to be a part, rather than being apart,

Wishing only to arrive at that shared place in the heart,

Humbly named, but so often mis-spoken,

Home.

Your voice, playful, inviting and elusive, has remained,

It chooses my most unguarded moments to ring out,

Just behind me, to the right, a stage whisper, inviting, "Higgins?"

The lilt - a shade's faint hint, the inflection - a wraith's promise,

That what has past is far from dead, and the lonely present,

No more than a hazy twitch fright,

Drawn long into a lingering waking-torment dream as we slept,

Entwined and at peace in our temporary love.

And, in turning, I expect to see you there,

Arm extended, palm up, holding no apple of discord,

Your eyes saying, "Maybe we missed some tiny remedy,

Maybe we never embraced long enough, Maybe,

Perhaps, if this, then that, of course,

After all, after all - after all!"

But you are lost to me now, and in turning, I see only myself,

Older in the mirror,

The line of my pain, broken small, cast across my face,

Sadder than I can remember, emptier than I can bear,

And I search my pockets looking for what little is left of you,

That I have not yet lost.

Copyright ©1998

Martin Higgins

all rights reserved