Poem-a-Day

How to begin the story without being obvious:
the wet face, eyes swollen dim, the swallowed
moan … Who cares and Who cares, you ask. We all have
our pain, and it is so bloody boring, so obvious. But 
that is the point: there is a sword, and we know
it is a sword, but despite our knowing we accept
the dual. What remains curious is our umbrage
when the tip of the blade enters. We are shocked. Why 
do we never believe it will go through the skin,
that the skin, ephemeral as a cloud, does nothing to protect
the heart? I dream of Pushkin,  
in my arms. Thrust through. I give him my breast.
A man who would never have loved me.
I kiss the tight curls on top of his head. It is the moment 
after his duel for another’s love, another’s honor.
Being me, I believe I can save him. I can’t. 
When I wake from this dream he is dead.
But the dream repeats itself. Every dusk,
the longing. Every daybreak the loss.