Because I loved you, I thought I could peel whole pages 
off the calendar and burn your name into all the flesh 
of coming seasons and yet not be touched by it, 
and that you would leave a light shining when you came. 
Once again I become your servant, nursemaid, protector; 
see you expecting and inviting, not lying on formica: white 
and all alone; then me still waiting for a miracle to set us free. 
How we had eloped into that solitude, at first; how we 
had forgotten everything short life had taught us: that god 
keeps a running sword well heated; how we began 
long ago, it seems, living this nostalgia. 
When you prey on me to let all of you out and yet leave 
the moans behind me, I hear one scream, grow as loud 
as a stumper's sermon on repeal, or an apostle's speech 
on what's not allowed, or the doctor's precise whispered view 
on all the last things we're not supposed to feel: 
  like hope or the hands that knot the shroud. 

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Editor's Note


SNR's Writers


John Mundt is a poet and writer living in New York City.  Previously published work has appeared in The New York Quarterly, Euphony, The Pittsburgh Quarterly, Ink, SNReview, Art & Understanding, The Pebble Lake, Change, Diagram and The Pedestal.  He has a degree in journalism from St. Bonaventure University and a masters in media from New York University.

Copyright 2005, John Mundt. This work is protected under the U.S. copyright laws. It may not be reproduced, reprinted, reused, or altered without the expressed written permission of the author.