The poet Martha Serpas makes me cry, although usually in a good way (be that what it may).
In Praise of the Passion Mark
First the unintentional: raspberry
blush, many-speckled lights,
and the message: oops, sorry.
Then the hard mark of the all-nighter,
a true Hoover, a hole black as leather,
daring you to plummet.
We were dancing, it just happened,
she said, helplessly sentenced
to a week of turtlenecks
in May, in the sticky South. The frozen
spoon failing, she took a curling iron
to her neck and still her mother knew
the mix of teeth and lips and love.
Alone, she admired her shoulder's
violet smear: she was wanted
and had wanted. She'd have it
needled and inked, a permanent
badge of desire, a license for love.
And when the plaid-clad chem teacher
appeared with his bright bruise,
news traveled fast: wanting
does not die after all, after age,
one sort of taking in does not
supersede another. Go
for the jugular. We cannot