Who Said This? - Poem by Daniel Brick
Three Riddles of Identity
When a heart breaks, the crack runs
down the middle, and the two halves
collapse, falling in opposite directions.
The left side mourns lost opportunity:
it is a dull throbbing pain, as if
the heart were still beating in tandem
with another it cannot grasp. The right side
remains inert, never again to be aroused,
the crowded pages of desire forever closed.
It happened the way mistakes happen:
when I wasn't paying attention, was distracted
from the moment of being, that's when
the beauty of this day revealed itself
as a hidden cornucopia, and poured flowers
and fruits over my body, sweet flowers and
gorgeous fruits poured their fragrance
over me, enveloped me in wonder upon wonder.
And birds shifted their flight paths and descended.
Was their a time, kinder than our age,
when my crimes could be forgiven,
even forgotten? I can readily fulfill
the terms of my restored status. I attend
a ceremony of recollection, geared toward
remorse, an emotion I can readily adopt.
Afterwards, a gathering of colleagues
in a private celebration, with tiny cakes
and champagne, perhaps a string quartet playing Mozart.
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