an old fashioned hardly noticed word keeps its claws in me
its marks itch as though I am infected by them

I sort out spoiled things / sniff / throw them out
their smell clings and I think of this word

its rust stains

I’ll say it here / now

love.

a noun amid dead eyes in shopping malls smelling of sugar
a verb amid wreckage of building and bone

love.

a curious and honest internal part hears love’s thought

If you find me dead you will weep
do not wait to give me what I deserve —

say YES when I ask if I am enough

answer YES when I wonder should I go on

YES
love
insists

poem by Jo Mariner / image: public domain card stock