à la folie





If there was a god
Who could make a world in seven
How many thousands of days have
I sat not creating fire? No, I mean
A woman is not a rope-bridge


I am reaching for the apotheosis
An arc between catastrophes
The boys come and pass, looking at love
Through sunlit glass, and a woman
Is not a pier leading to an ocean

When I do not say Je t'aime
In any language
There is a great body of love falling
From these tiny hands that were
Never good containers

If there was a god, she would not be a
Woman is not a rope, a noose or lasso
No, I mean, letting down my hair
The need to give is not a dispensation
Dragging by my hair, a woman is not
A respite from despair, pulling down
My hair as I lay slack the reins, lay
Waiting to be stepped upon, a kiss of
Salt is no gauge for a woman

When I do not say Je t'aime à la folie
A great body of love
Escapes me
Through tiny fingers
That never were containers



[copyright Taylor Roberts 2016]

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