nausea
It was never you, I'm afraid.
Godlets, angel, and something else
a daughter of broken glass and headaches
framed in nostalgia for sun on snow.
Warrior and child both fought for you
knowing you were no prize. Won and then woven
you were, together, solid.
And now we leave.
You touched the angel and her stomach turned
with pity for disgust. She's not your weapon, now.
If she is Psyche you are no Eros. Eros
would be at least beautiful.
Now tears unshed collect around my navel,
emerging intact as diamonds, pride
hard as the wind in a high place.
Unshattered, I spread wings
that I think might be imaginary.
And leap.
1996