©2009 mykl g sivak

Love, I abstract thee…

like some strange machine
that gently lifts the living hen
and smoothly splits
its spine—

to cease the placid cooing,
to shut the blinking eye,
to stop the heart’s
quick beating,
drop the dumb head
to the abattoir floor—

And sets cold metal
hooks of gleaming steel deep
into soft and still warm flesh,
to rend, clip and tear,
pull muscle from the bone,
mash and grind, reshape
the flesh into something
more manageable
and easy
to consume.

Love, I abstract thee,
because I am ruined.

Because as a younger man
my thoughts were thought
of fear.

Because then my empty heart
was not empty but filled,
and it pulsed hot, and flexed
hot, and I looked to you
as a symbol
of something I
could not
define.

I did not ignore the flesh
nor idealize it, then.
But accepted the reality
of the body as something
other than it was—

I made meaninglessness
into sweet sadness, twisted
fear to finally-grounding
empathy, felt a piece
of something,
at last, until dreamy
abstractions fell asunder
like iron joints that
drop when the magnetic
current is switched.

What had my mind done,
with the scaled
plantar lesions nesting
deep within the flesh
of your pared soles,

that had calloused more
with each footfall, since
your baby legs first gained
skill enough to stand—

when all your fear was the fear
of abandonment and all
joy was the shower
of love?

Love, I abstract thee
because some decades past
I filled my heart with
invented ideas because
my options were limited
and the fear was deep
and lonesome.

And so,
I give you less than you deserve
because once I had embraced
a need instead of truth.

But now, both are gone
for me with
only this strange abstraction
left within their spots.
So now, I cannot distinguish
idealization from derision,
or fact from emotion.

Love, I abstract thee,
bend you to some beast.
Am I consumer or consumed?
Or do we feast
slowly upon the other,
taking bits not large enough
to destroy

so that our flesh
can slowly age with time
so that in decrepitude,
we will sit ruined still
by the failure of embraced
conceptions formed
in the stupidity of youth.

Love, I abstract thee
as if you are a block of clay
I haven’t the skill
or fortitude
to shape

into any recognizable form.
In frustration I mash it
to meaninglessness.

Older sculptures rest
upon dusty mantels—
fractured antiques that hold
no meaning, yet
represent the idealization
of a time when things
seemed clearer

but really hinged
only upon unquestioning
acceptance of fabrications,
the notion that things
were right then

and nothing else
could ever be.