The Last

He had a rawness about him,
(as if his godhood did not befit)
and wrapped his flaws
around himself like a shroud.
But I loved his radiance
as much as his fall from grace.
And though there was nothing
I could make of my shredded
illusions, still I spun and spun
and wove a tapestry out of
the tattered remains
to shelter my heart.

Between the first time and the last,
I strived to obliterate the shadow projected;
to sponge the anguish from our betrayals -
his and mine -
and replace it with the scent
and taste and feel of other flesh.
But over the years he would return
as the prodigal
and I was always the forgiver -
the receiver.

I had nearly forgotten his impact on my life,
so deeply interred were my dreams;
until I remembered the last time I saw him -
so many years ago -
how he used me,
how easily he pulled me into his arms,
how I finally had seen him for what he was;
past the rickety hopes and the shattered skies -
how I fell into a torpor,
how part of me died,
and how I had forgotten
that he was the last.

And when the sepulcher was opened,
the decampment of flies buzzed
in long formations of sorrow,
his ghost leading the charge,
wringing the last drops of blood
from my riven side.


© 2000 Melissa Songer