… beyond the worst.

By J. K. McDowell

February 2012

 

I cannot smell your perfume – alas, is that jasmine and lemongrass?

A start fraught with disaster – a poisoned evening?

Sit with me a moment, things might get worse.

 

I cannot taste your wine – alas, the pinot goes so well with the fish.

Now the meal is ruined too.  The poison is real.

Sit with me a moment, things might get worse.

 

I cannot hear your praise – alas, what did you call me?

This conversation is the poison’s new victim.

Sit with me a moment, things will get worse.

 

I cannot see your face – alas, is there an approving smile?

This poison is taking effect much too quickly.

Sit with me a moment, things will get worse.

 

I cannot feel your lips – alas, was that a kiss?

There is no antidote and the poison spreads.

Sit with me a moment, things will get worse.

 

The last traces of poison are gone.  Moment

To moment I sit here at your oak casket, Jim.

In the Beloved’s embrace we pass beyond the worst.

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