Poem for Thursday, November 1, 2012

Caveat

At some point, it will hurt.

Not like lemon-juice-in-an-open-cut hurt
or even post-heartbreak hurt. It is meta.
It is the ominous cloud shadow. The divine
cold shoulder. The repercussions of sneezing
too loudly. And it lurks behind you with
dark stealth. And it will seize you during
some innocuous moment--a trip to the bank
or buying flowers on the street. It will reach
inside of you, violate you through untouched
clothes and take part of you with it, upward.
It is not death itself; it is the death of what
you thought you knew. And it hurts the worst
during a soft crescendo of violins or a memory
of a girl with caramel skin.