At the beginning, I wasn’t interested.
I’d just never thought of him like that
but then he came and lavished me,
outrageously, with gifts.
He gave me loving words, enamoured words,
committed words,
in little parcels.
He gave them and I took them.
It’s no secret that he has riches
and more than one could ever need.
I saw him through new eyes, he was kind
and shone with his generosity.
For the first time, looking at him,
I felt his riches shine on me.
The parcels were seeds, planting
new thoughts and ideas
in my mind, which rapidly ran overgrown.
The landscape where he’d left me
was a wilderness, and he wasn’t anywhere.
The parcels still glowed
with the gold promises inside them.
I was starting to think he’d left town
because he was absent such a long time
but the gifts he’d given me
were enough to keep the after-image
of myself loved in my mind’s eye.
I allocated it to a small corner
of my consciousness, for the little thought
I would give it, not taking up space.
Something strange happened then.
I’ve given up trying to work it out
because it was tiring to guess
what it was that went wrong, or
if it was me or if it was him.
He was taking gibberish when I next saw him
and had everyone concerned he’d gone mad.
Watching him playing pretend like a child-
it made me sad, it made me pity him.
The parcels, when I later opened them
on my own, were poorly-picked gifts
packaged to look like something gold
His riches had not been spent.
I can’t help but resent his cruelty,
making everybody sick with worry.
And what an unkind thing it is to do
giving garbage wrapped up like riches
to fool the receiver, making a mockery
out of the way they think themselves gifted.
When I recall his loving words now,
I don’t hear his voice. Instead,
I remember the words spoken by a parrot.
It’s a peculiar thing, memory.
The parrot doesn’t know the meaning
of the words it’s repeating, and like these
I remember, the words don’t mean anything.
But still, be kind,
when you are rich and can give.
Give, when you can
and, if you believe in the words
you want to say,
say them. Be generous.
Be benevolent.
Even though everything
seems to be decaying, and
I’m certain it’s gone on longer
than I had been thinking,
I can still be hopeful
that not all lovers prove unkind
and not all gifts wax poor.
I can still graciously receive gifts
without any skepticism about how much
it’s worth. That doubting mind
isn’t a natural fit for me.
I like to think the world is perhaps
more beautiful than it is in reality.
RICH GIFTS WAX POOR WHEN LOVERS PROVE UNKIND
4