Cautious smiles flickered on her wounded lips
behind the fire curtain drawn across
her face. There is a wariness which drips
out of her pores. I sense she’s suffered loss.
I know her pain (I think she knows I know);
but neither of us states the way we feel.
Thus, to prevent the fact that hurt may grow,
we hold back and our longings we conceal.
This gentle soul’s been bruised and left to die.
Am I, alone, the only other soul
to see her scar and want to sanctify
its cells and melt her shell and make her whole?
It’s long since I have felt this sacred urge
to take a woman in my arms and merge.
© Alan Morrison, 2014