Isölte & Tristan
Please don't say the dull knife is more dangerous.
She blows out a candle; thunder cracks in a valley
as meadowlarks crouch in the rising breeze.
Since Sunday school I've heard it as I don't want a Shepherd.
They say he drew the blade, not once, but a hundred
times over Isaac's unyielding throat.
Let's not talk about the heart just yet, okay?
We notice our leftovers gone in the fridge and grit our teeth.
All we'll find on Mars is the stone club that killed Kennedy.
A man goes to a Chinese doc for his burning knee:
after an hour with a heating pad, he walks out, cured.
Should I stop writing, then, about this heartache?
This is right about where they'll say I told you so.
That’s okay. I’m Tristan dreaming in a hollow oak;
I am Isölt catching sight of that black sail.
Thank you for following these splotches
that stained the page-white snow – and for your hands
warming this spine as the words trail off.
(Reprinted with permission of the Vaughn Association, 2020, from Scintilla #23.)
She blows out a candle; thunder cracks in a valley
as meadowlarks crouch in the rising breeze.
Since Sunday school I've heard it as I don't want a Shepherd.
They say he drew the blade, not once, but a hundred
times over Isaac's unyielding throat.
Let's not talk about the heart just yet, okay?
We notice our leftovers gone in the fridge and grit our teeth.
All we'll find on Mars is the stone club that killed Kennedy.
A man goes to a Chinese doc for his burning knee:
after an hour with a heating pad, he walks out, cured.
Should I stop writing, then, about this heartache?
This is right about where they'll say I told you so.
That’s okay. I’m Tristan dreaming in a hollow oak;
I am Isölt catching sight of that black sail.
Thank you for following these splotches
that stained the page-white snow – and for your hands
warming this spine as the words trail off.
(Reprinted with permission of the Vaughn Association, 2020, from Scintilla #23.)