4 men loved; all who’ve left 

Each man has left her in a different way, but each 

man indeed has left her.

The first man was just a boy of 8, when she’d

been just a girl who’d slipped out

of 7, and she’d

fallen so deeply in life with this

friend, she’d never imagined their parting

could ever 

have become a searing of loss at such

awful cost.

The 2nd was the husband she married at

26, and his 

30 years belied so furious his rank inability to 

make of wedding-night

what wedding-

night should 

instead have been able to 

lighten

up, and over and out, and in

this din of love 

which 

sinfully 

he refused her.

And although they were still – even today – much as if

their marriage was tough

and even still a thing, in truth no

fruit was ever picked 

nor drunk since the first time and moment he ejected

her being.

And the 3rd man who left her bereft and sad was a

glorious man of wonderful

intellect, who opened up proud a mind

of such love, 

and yet somehow – even here, as she hit 44 – 

her frightening life conspired and plotted

to pull them apart, as lovers

torn shearingly: no hearts remaining 

unbroken, 

nor whole, 

nor repeated,

nor treated as thrive.

No soul remaining neat, 

nor complete at all:

just the uneven thrall of

opportunity so 

briefly kissed.

And then it became the turn of the 3rd’s own

son: the final man of this litany of

rejection.

And so she did equally love

these 4 men in her life:

and so they all 4 did 

leave her that 

solo.

And so now she’s sad alone, 

as this solo as can be,

finally without

illusion-

s,

without any sanctuary

it becomes her once more

to saddle up 

that oft

loudly 

proclaimed

hoarse of love’s hope,

shouted to 

all winds:

the 4 of this world, and her

life so mistreated:

and inevitable,

and disreputable,

and the numbers and the stats.

And that is almost all

she can state in this

that:

she loved a dear young man when only he was 8;

she loved another equally when he knocked the door of 30;

she loved a 3rd as much as the 1st 

2 who’d come along, 

exactly just when his mighty

chronology counted 

a fabulous 

handsome 47.

And ultimately, the one she

thought – 

for brief 

time – to be the final 

unexpected 

kindly act

of a universe which till such a date had felt so cold, 

had felt so

utter factual – in fact

a universe 

of a matter of fucked! 

did actually lead to the baddest bad of all:

and as she fell in love with

a man of 26,

a beautiful man of astonishing grace, he ended up – this 

much was now 

clear – as simply

the 4th in a common enough list 

of loves 

so cruel and

quite hurtful and

quite magical and

similarly painful, 

it was true;

and tiresome

and dry-

some,

that even her optimism 

now does begin to wade,

like the 

stinking woman she accepts she must be –

in that sinking Irish bog of tears

she now

surely must occupy 

for the 

rest 

of 

her 

years.

Leave a reply:

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s