Saturday Poem

—In a recent conversation, when I asked a firend how it was going he said, laughing, “My life is so good now, so wonderful, I’m in terror of things going to hell.”  My wife said to me later, “That’s what I like about him, he gets it.”
Jim C.

In Her Lovemaking She Grieves
Gagan Gill ””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””’

In her lovemaking, she grieves
In her grief, she makes love

In her lovemaking, she gives him a name
The one she gives the name is illusion
Maya, whose desire moves through her sleep

She knows, in the end
Whatever name she calls him by
Each name will only be an empty space.

Making love, she thinks
She is safe in her oblivion
In her longing, in her selfishness
She doesn’t remember that
The one she desires
Is just one fistful of bones.
Bones that come out of the crematorium
In just five minutes

Making love, she breathes
In his flesh, his marrow, his soul

Somewhere around here was his soul
Would she find it
In these fistful of bones?

Each time in her fear
She holds him tightly to her
Each time he slips out from her arms

In her lovemaking
In her grief