Frostwriting

In Polite Conversation, There Are Things One Tries Very Hard Not To Say

by Henry Kearney, IV

Say it plain—

Fire is not a bad thing,
and I am in love with a woman

who does not exist
or love me back.

That is not the worst of it.

I have acquired several
invisible parasitic skeletons.

They feast on my marrow
and call me Lover, laughing.

You would have it plainer?

In my yard is an inter-celestial airport,
direct flights to everywhere
you cannot imagine.

The value of these homes plummets consistently.

Everything I say is true,
and I know things
you do not want me to know.

Plainer? 

This is not the poetry
of salvation.

There is no poetry of salvation.

Still plainer?  Ok.

In my life,
there are many boxes.

These boxes contain many papers,
photographs too.

There are poems there
I wish I had not written.

There are love letters.
There are hate letters.

There are letters that never meant anything at all.

Many times I have set out
to burn these boxes.

You see, they are cumbersome,
their mass great and unruly.

And yet, there they are,
right where they always were.

I cannot move them.

I can say it no plainer.