The Twelfth of April
When I met you, you were a power tagged and trapped in a box. A tiger caught by its toe and yet I could do nothing but fall under the spell of your roar. The suppressed growl you leave for me like an invitation I could never decline. I write to you a note of explanation; words testifying to my desire, which I promise to hold back out of respect for you. And a wish to survive my drive toward you and your furious stripes and claws. Your bite which I long to feel, yet know I must not ask for. When I inquire if you have read, you say with sanguine smile, “Read it to me.” When I am done and with tear stained face, all you reply is, “I have lost my taste for anyone but you.”
Keep an ear out for more than danger
GOOD SAMARITAN PIE
The meal prepared from my cognition,
The bread and jam of humility, salad of expectation,
Roast of determination and Good Samaritan pie
Wait on the table to be devoured.
The courses pass and come desert, my kindly intentions.
Are cut to wedges and pushed from setting to setting.
I can dollop after dollop cover the requisite desires
Of this tart in attempt to deny my addiction to fixing
Or I can serve up the plain truth.
I help and help, and wander down roads looking
For lost puppies to return to their homes.
I must admit my longing to lend support
Is sometimes half-baked and if kept to home and hearth
It might serve me better and make a sweeter dish.
Assistance is best in proportion to the meal
I must live my life and save my Good Samaritan pie till last.
You are reading selections from More Sober on the Way to Sane and Lines From My Life by Sherrie Theriault