Disunion and Détente
In low November, our falling-out
was like Stukas over Warsaw.
"Blue" words seared the air between us,
but my synesthesia heard them crimson.
Cherished notions were derided.
Certain bloodlines were defamed.
And I won't speak of the crockery.
Drawing apart, we cooled and condensed
to form the opposing moons of a toxic mood—
each, a small, dark, lonely, ice-covered
fist clutching a molten core.
When will it end? The gulf between
the Guelphs and Ghibellines
took six hundred years to mend.
Now they are all just Italians,
Cats and dogs,
cops and robbers,
the Balkan states—
a cheery biblical misquote
says that the lion will
lie down with the lamb...someday.
And those non-Euclideans
claim that parallel lines
meet in infinity.
I hope it doesn't
take that long for us.
R. A. Allen's poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in the New York Quarterly, Underground Voices, The Recusant (UK), Pear Noir!, Word Riot, Gargoyle, and elsewhere. He lives in Memphis.
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© Copyright R. A. Allen 2012