Sometimes it’s a lonely hopeless fondness
A yearning stranger on an empty train
Casting fantasies over the passing wildernesses
But other times, it’s a black congealing bitterness
A frightful bruised stain, and the anger it rises
In a righteous refrain, the song of the scorned,
The damned, and then suddenly it transforms itself
Again, to the grieving widow at the altar rail,
Railing over all that she has lost
Loss, the aching cavity where her heart used to sit
And beat, then the singing congregation bustles
With a shriek, and the pale dead woman under the
Veil has grown wings, she smirks at the priest,
My God, she’s mad, glad that’s she’s not the
Woman scorned after all, but a woman damned,
Damned to play out her life as just another harpy
Stuffed full with impotent jealousy
Schemes and fancies to take down that other woman
The one that replaced her, and stole her crown,
But am I she, the woman damned?
As I huddle confused under the dust of the catastrophe
The wreckage where our love used to be
And I wonder, where did it all go wrong?
When did the bombs start raining down?
Why did I not seek shelter sooner,
When our love was greener, and newer?
But it is gone, lost, underneath the rubble
Toil and trouble, and I want to curse you, damn you
Rip you in two and feed you to the dogs
But that will not replace that which I have lost
No, for when the fury dies, a strange type of calmness
Resides, I look on you and I would wish you well
Even though I would try to cast you under
My spell, my desires dissolve as I wish you well
My benediction, after all for you I lost my heart
And I hold it out in front of me still
I am not my own because in me another heart beats
On, and on, and although you will not look at me
Again, in the way you used to do, I will know the
Perfect fragile joy of once having loved you.


Rose Maguire