A Poem Concerning Process, Forgiveness: Not Forgiving Karen Cuccio, And, In The End, Ambiguity, The Meaning Lost In French, French Translation … Poem by Dennis Ryan

Thursday afternoon, April 18,2024 at 12: 39 p.m.

—This poem is for Karen Cuccio-Davis who still lives in New Port Richey, Florida, in a subdivision where she convinced me to build a home in 1994 on Bengal Lane, on the block next to hers. At the time, in truth, I didn't require much convincing.

Forgiveness, is everything.
I do know this: to forgive others
is to forgive oneself simultaneously
for all those present and past indiscretions.
I forgive as much as possible, today included,
knowing that I am, was equally in the wrong
with that Irish lass of a poet. Calm down.
Pax Romana. Peace on earth—where there
exists, unfortunately, little to none. I can forgive
almost anything, anyone save Karen, who has
consciously and consistently betrayed me over
many years' time, caused me emotional harm,
my spirit to doubt despite all the good I did her—
ten strikes, finally, Karen, you're out, whether it
be in New Port Richey, Brooklyn, Staten Island,
and wherever else you might roam, Janus-faced
drifter that you are. And to think, I, well, you know …
I've written about this in perhaps seventy poems
before—then, finally, how the Florida police, in Tampa
and New Port Richey have used you against me, easy—
easy tool that you are—doe, doe eyes forever caught
in the headlights despite your protestations otherwise;
you forget, 'have forgotten'—that past perfect tense
we shared so often—how well I know you, know you
better than anyone else save Paul, who you constantly
keep, kept at arm's length those five years so you could
have me to yourself, at the boys' ball games, at your
house for those glasses of red wine, and finally on
the hood of your car late at night, you sneaking those
bottles of beer outside—you were so fine, putting out
the fire was it? Was this the meaning? (You made him
believe it, didn't you. He disliked me so much that
you felt you needed to provide me some protection
at the time to protect yourself. Okay, let it be. Once
upon a time—upon the hood of your blue station wagon.
I am not speaking words of wisdom here, but let it be; nevertheless …) Oh, yeah, the topic is forgiveness,
not sex, sexuality, and identity—not D.H. Lawrence
on the above in The Rainbow, The Three Day Blow,
Women In Love, Lady Chatterly's Lover, The Rocking
Horse Winner. Did I get these citations right? Alright,
a 'lay' is a day in a life, an old French poem, from
Provance, Landoc, isn't it? Je suis toujours content
de vous vois, Stephanie. And Karen? Elle es douleur.
Sans flute. Sans doute. Mot, mot a double sens.