As a way to compensate

by Abner Dormiendo

I’ve decided I will love this poem
with the love I never gave the world,
all its daffodils and nuclear silos
and the missiles snoring, all the sunlight
that never licked a skin the way I did
with you. You? You’re out of this world.
You’re interstellar, light years away
from artificial satellites and the Great Wall.
Is it visible there where you are? My heart,
I mean. My pain, I mean, like it’s clenched
in a fist the size of a full moon. There it is
again. The moon. The goddamn moon,
appearing again in my poem as if my poem
is a planet of dinosaur fossils and civil wars
and rock music, and I love this poem so much
I don’t want it to end, I don’t want it
to go away, so pardon the river of my bones
trying to swallow the sky, my hummingbird
chest trying to drink from the leaf that tried
so hard to cusp you in the shadow of moonlight.
I tried so hard to cut your voice from the forest
of crickets, to find a constellation in the shape
of your shoulder blade, a car plate that spells
your name, to stop the car before it goes
to somewhere else, to keep this poem
the way I never kept you, the way I keep
this line from being the last, and the way
I do in this line, but not the next one,
the last one, the one that pertains to you.


Day 15 of NaPoWriMo: Write a poem that is sort of self-reflexive, something that addresses itself. This was a fun prompt for me because I love meta things!