In my hand...

I know. I have been away for along time. Using face book to tell the story of my days and heart's doings, of my love and loved friends. but I am back. Getting my papers together for their voyage back to LHA, working on two boxes of my writing self. I come across 6 yellowing index cards " from 1963. My first woman lover, the first woman I loved, not always the same thing, is dying of ovarian cancer, so young, so wanting to live. I wrote these in the shortest form I knew of, haiku, but more, because the pain was too deep for more.
                 1--Reductions
The illness of my young friend
Makes me a dry pod
In an autumn field.

Her death snaps me.

                2
The poet slept with song
And sucked her swollen breast
The poet walked with night
And stared (not finished)

                 3
Winter tiredness
Oceans heavy with grey
A silent gull
Carries my strength away.

               4
The human body
falls into disrepair
The soul takes up residence
between a sunrise and a tear


My dear dear Carol, all these years I have carried your image with me, the photo of you golden against a blue sky, with the words you wrote to me, in that small, tentative script--"To Joan, who make me feel big enough for all." All these years I have felt your lips on mine.