The Unconsoled

Oh won’t you reach out and let your lips rest against my hair

The lightest touch will do, like the last breath of starlight in the morning air
I will stand still if you wish, so still you will hardly even know I’m there
I will stand still – so let your fingers drift where they will
and take all the measure of my upward, undefended face. So still, so still and so small, the smallest knot of yearning that’s ever been
and all turned trembling towards the sun of you. Will you not touch me? Nor cast some quickening smile my way? At least, then,
spare me the barest whisper of a prayer;
or some glancing kindness in some straying thought. I see your face
all full of desert days and no shelter anywhere; and though I know
I must fight to save myself, I fear that I am stronger than myself
and none of me can ever be
stronger than you. So if you must look,
see me not with the bleached airfield of your glare
Turn down those eyes; call back, call back
the wild exigency of your hate
I see it always straining at the breaking gate
and I cannot move past its yellow stare.
In dreams I see your eyes, lovely with the streaking rain,
I am breaking in the piteous dark. For heaven’s sake, find me.
Touch me. See me, want me, claim me;
Sound the one pure eternal note of me.
Hold me close to you again.