The Inch-Wide Heart
       

One maintains certain standards given the vaguely wolfish shiver at the thought of the beloved, even in the presence of the beloved, though the beloved thinks, "Thank goodness it's you, not that madman who came last time, he seemed drunk to me or else lunatic." And in truth, who else to ask? You beg for a signal—god loves me, she loves me not—a whisper, a crumb of holy presence, and gods, in their infinite wisdom, and perhaps overwhelmed by the avalanche of requests from so many tormented souls, omits to answer.

He never, you notice, any more, answers.

Faith, just so, a fractious thing, and if so then, Freud is even harder, who supposes that we're all made of disobedient little lover material enshrined in our heavenly bodies. So why shouldn't you ask? Will there be another kiss, is this or that volcano at the point of eruption, with a libido of igneous magma yet the heart of an angel? If you had to choose one of the other, the flow of blood to the brain or that which flows to the loins, we'd be better off growing fat in an office like a cardinal's and plunging soft sponge cakes in our coffee.

Light the candle, conjure up that halo
of amber light, reveal the dancing shapes
upon walls that weep with tears of dampness,
the fallen ceilings, the unhinged doors,
through which, bright
moons in the courtyard
glow countless.

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Copyright © 2020 Jeffrey Levine All rights reserved
from At the Kinnegad Home for the Bewildered
Salmon Poetry
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission