I have seen it drive women to madness�
as definite as winter chill�the breeze
deep-seated, fixed like bullet to bone.

And it is beside you, inside you, all season:
something stirs in the air.

Voices, like petals pulled from their stems:
"He loves me." It is enough.

It is enough -
beneath a current, where stones lie silent,
where breath becomes still within minutes.

We say yes, yes, yes to it all � only to linger
on eastern edges, like game pieces: each
rapt to see where the other may go � so
still at times, we appear to be the next
period as it awaits return.

Once long ago, I walked this path, my body
became depleted, nerves on the ache of
splinter. And at the close of it all, I found
nothing. [I found nothing.]

My chest split in the bitter fist of December,
left to solidify in its grasp. I remained there
forever it seemed: bruised shins, hair in my
hands, and one black boot on the floor.

And across the miles, vast as an ocean song,
a handful of love awaits, its faith in me,
like an open field � I feel the warmth, but am
frightened of the strength it reveals.



�2006 by Cherilyn Ferroggiaro