Star Turn

Graham Foust

That the deepest wound is the least unique
surprises nobody but the living.
Secretly, and with what feels like good reason,
we’re the pain the people we love
put the people they no longer love in.

More by Graham Foust

Love Poem

What would pick through our shadows would tear them, too, 
were we to give it time enough and reason.

We will, it will—the rest won't be history.
How would you like to go for a walk with me?

Time I’m Not Here

All day on all my days,
the lives I’m not to process wash in;

anxieties lullaby on
and quite like to be gotten among;

but now—and now—one old,
abundant flower just screws up the room.

Related Poems

Love Opened a Mortal Wound / Con el dolor de la mortal herida

(Skip to the original poem in Spanish)

Love opened a mortal wound.
In agony, I worked the blade
to make it deeper. Please,
I begged, let death come quick.

Wild, distracted, sick, 
I counted, counted
all the ways love hurt me.
One life, I thought--a thousand deaths.

Blow after blow, my heart
couldn't survive this beating.
Then--how can I explain it?

I came to my senses. I said,
Why do I suffer? What lover
ever had so much pleasure?

Con el dolor de la moral herida,
de un agravio de amor me lamentaba;
y por ver si la muerte se llegaba,
procuraba que fuese más crecida.

Toda en el mal el alma divertida,
pena por pena su dolor sumaba,
y en cada circunstancia ponderaba
que sobrarban mil muertes a una vida.

Y cuando, al golpe de uno y otro tiro,
rendido el corazón daba penoso
señas de dar el último suspiro,

no sé con qué destino prodigioso
volví en mi acuerdo y dije:--¿Qué me admiro?
¿Quién en amor ha sido más dichoso?