Come To Me
You were always the possibility, the glimmer
In the grass as the train passed and all the kneaded dough
In Brooklyn couldn’t prepare us for your
Coming. You were always the
Beginning, the start of something else, the woman who
Stood in the window singing songs to the purpling sky
until even the dogs wouldn’t listen. You took my
Wretchedness, my bird, my lark. You took
My warbler, my dignity, my harm. You ate my
Liver, my hair, my fingers stripped—
It was always you.
Oh, come to me.
Come to me now in the greening grass, in the
Summering streets, in the pock in the jaw and the
Pit of the arm. Come to me, oh, to me
Now, in the eye of the storm, in the gathering lull,
In the interminable hush between what’s been said and
What never will be. Come.
I have been waiting.
Not on my knees, no, never that, and not with my
Tongue or my bladder or my gall. But just as I
Am. Me, nothing else. Me, something more. Me.
Come.
Jean-Michele Gregory
10:56 PM
Dilettante Archives