Jane Mayhall, "The Forbidden"

Awful, not to be sleeping in
the same bed with you. The respectability
of medical opinion, that destroys not
just hope, but the actual network of pleasure we
built in life. Never again, the sane encounter-
and the undercover hint of form,
the plasticity of companionship that nobody
mentions. Nightly conjunctions, part

dreams, the ceiling blink of cars from outside
on the country road. The low scatter, and grace-pattering
rain, color of consciousness. That we are
more than individuals. And now rent,
kept apart, not by warring theatrical families,
but by doctors and syringes.

In their distant birdcage, taking
account. Ravenously, I look forward to even
the skimpiest meeting allowed, and our unrealistic
true love. Unfettered and determined
like headlights on a road.




Jane Mayhall

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