Christmas Day

      The wounded corporeal rises
      A smidgen higher, occasionally

      Unrequited love felt, real
      Love acknowledged and uttered accordingly

      Momentous, in its open cage
      Terror swaps sides seemingly

      Fear of no love, pretend anguish
      Rips stale language, old inequality.

      To see in closed eyes a face, perhaps
      Your face; joyous, non-begging.

      Out, somewhere safe by quiet trunks
      Somewhere in sparse unairing

      I remember you all, as I’m
      Walking, resting heads, bosoms

      I remember that your love is never
      How I imagined, though always better.

Poem by James P. Quinton


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