The Departed Poem by April Michelle Wolverton

I have never loved,
as a woman should love.
I have always been wait-wait-waiting,
never chasing the train,
only an empty pot to his sleek spoon.

O, gentle waking fist,
my limb, a strength,
you have been killed!
and the puddle, it cushions the downpour-
holding, keeping,
the dirt, the mud, the rocks.

For I have never been the rain,
free to fall, to collapse and be caught,
I have never watered the growing,
nor colored the pale.

I am only a waist, a knee,
a cry, cry, cry!

And he, wingless,
has settled upon the fig leaf,
showing his back-skin,
a closeness that has been lost.

His mouth has never become a truth,
and his painter's hands
have never dared to touch the paint.