The Art of Not Feeling
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It is a labor of love Like a craftsman or artisan Trained in the art of Intricate construction.
Like a DeChirico painting Pregnant with conundrum, A human composition, Emptied of its emotional significance.
Yesterday, I felt something Stir in my breast For an Italian man, A specimen of most alluring appeal.
He dropped and broke A bottle of blood red Chianti On a Spanish tile floor, and I recalled my heart often Often offered up on similarly cold altars.
Ultimately alone, I walked into the dark, Clutching the warmth of a pizza, Yet missing the warmth of a man’s loins.
Unlike the great three prophets, Who hold forth salvation for the masses, My pattern and focus remained un-thwarted, As I sought redemption not in their dogma and creed, But between the arms of a man.
It is night like these, After a “Walk in the Clouds," That I reminisce about The days of loving and Forgetfulness.
Days I shall never know again, Because I have lost my art of Loving and forgiveness.
Author: Ayanna Nahmias
