The River

For me

There is no slaking this thirst
by drinking
No quieting this roar
by bread or by meat
No quenching this desire
by yielding
There is no escaping my captor
by a coming together

There is no relief from this dream
by waking
No quieting this moan
by hearing it complete
No pouring myself
into wonderful warmth
There is no release
by finally melting

Surely, this is a sickness
Surely, when not a minute passes
without the thought of her
When not a breath escapes me
without the need to touch
to hold, to bury my face
in her hair and vanish
into that river

Surely, this is a sickness
this awful pull
this unreasoning
this unseeing
that sees nothing but her
that feels nothing
but the need
to furl up against her
and vanish
into that river

For this is not volition
No, this is not choice

This is now river

This cannot be right
this driving rush
that asks nothing
but obedience
blind and absolute
that hopes for nothing
but release
and never stops speaking

It is a terrible sickness
this one
that seizes the heart
in its iron grip
and seems to
leave it up to you
when in truth
there is no you left
to leave it up to

For now
there is only the heart
and the fist
and its terrible
crushing strength

It is the human part
of being so very human

It is the lie
that states
in a thousand different guises
that you are incomplete
without her
that you are unfulfilled
without her
that you are less yourself
without her

It is the hurt
that says
in a thousand different tongues
that you are nothing but hope
without her
Nothing
but that constant
aching
seething
seeking
loving
lost and roaming
tossed and sinking
warm and clutching
darkly living
softly killing
wish

How can this be me
so content a moon ago
Now so starved

How can this be me
so in flight a sky ago
So heavy now
with Earth

Ah, that I could lose myself
in something else
in something less
consuming
while still
I have some air
to call my own
untainted by this
ceaseless love
so fierce
that only poetry can heal it

For unlike the bruises
cuts and breaks
and scrapes and burns
that start their healing
once received
(the body sees to that)
this wound
is of the unhealing kind

So fierce at times
that priests would
drown its moan
with metal and thong
in rivers of blood
in grooves of pain
to replace
her ache
for a moment at least
with the sting of her sister

And yet, and yet,
I have to know

Tell me
by what design
and by whose
does this tender seed
sown by love
so innocently
by a blush perhaps
by a sweet smile
a kiss
a tender eye
a touch
by one hand upon another
with no harm planned
nor pain intended

Tell me
by what design
and by whose
does this tender seed
thus planted
into soil of understanding
Turn parasite

Turn tentacles
Turn drooling

Turn strands
Then shackles

Then terrible sickness

By no will of mine
(and so I swear)

By no will of hers
(and so I swear)

By only the voice of one heart
caught by another

Though heard
by these strands
so fierce and strong
only song
can sever

But whence do they spring
these tiny strands
so small at first
as to not be seen
that can grow to turn a
nothing but sky
into terrible darkness

How do they grow
these tiny strands
from hand on hand
and tongue on tongue
to turn a nothing but laughter
to a nothing but ache

And so I wonder

What endurance
What steadiness of hand
What surgical skill will it take

What masterful incisions
and delicate cuttings
must succeed

That the sickness
and its innocent heart
be severed
That the patient may still live
That the sharing may remain
while the terrible sickness
returns to Earth
to shatter

This, my love,
is the trial of spirit
living here

Ulf Wolf

Summer 2001