To you, to myself
I lied to you to myself once,
When we were tender petal faces, ignorant-drunk
and raring
I told you:
"Of course I will still love you"
When you are old and fat.
I didn't believe it.
I spoke it from expectation-
(even tried to think I thought it)
And because I wanted to believe I could believe
in a failed approximation of selflessness.
...
(the women come and go,
talking of Maya Angelow)
...
I saw you, saw myself, for the first time in years-
You seemed happy, exhausted,
kids were in tow-
Your petal-face drooped over a vase gone to pot.
You levied a smile at me,
Those ancient, ineffable, jokes-for-two dancing in your eyes.
Like shoving a tongue into a corner of my mouth only to remember the tooth was pulled.
Expired realizations weigh heavy on lonely grey men:
I was only lying to myself
back then
Thank you for reading!
This is a poem I've been mulling over for the last few months. Maya Angelou's name is misspelled on purpose, but I'm not sure if that's the best course of action. I may be trying to do too much heavy lifting with it, and the context might not work. I mean, if it were in a poetry book, people would give me the benefit of the doubt that it was intentional. On the webs, they may just recognize me for the fool I am.
I'd love to hear your thoughts on this or any other aspect of the poem.
C
(Through it all, Pondicherry, India, 2018, 