Sea Change: February 2017

by Leonor Morrow

I haven’t put a poem on paper for months now
because the old metaphors don’t work anymore.

Your eyes are your eyes are your eyes.

I have stared into them long enough to know

there is nothing like them on earth.

I am going to be honest here.
It’s not that I no longer believe in forest fire hearts

or the way hands trace constellations out of freckles.
It’s that there are no words (worlds) in existence
that explain what you mean to me
(how I’m more at home with you than anyone else).

I used to write poems about sunrises and ocean floors
but now I can hardly say your name
without it sounding like a wonder of the world
(of the solar system, of the milky way).

In another life I’d have penned a stanza about burrowing owls
or the fact that mockingbirds mate for life
but I know better now:

all I’d really be saying
(what everything comes down to)
is that I love you.

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