why we wallow in ruin
poetry by Len Kuntz
The Truth About Love
We’ve walked on razors and butcher knives
in nothing but our bare feet.
We’ve cut each other with shards
where our knuckles should have been.
We’ve made moon-sized bruises, drawn lakes of blood.
As I sit roped to this broad oak,
hair stuck to a slather of sap
waiting for your second act,
I search for spurs of moonshine through the weaving limbs
and wonder why we wallow in ruin
while every other couple
takes their delight
in holding hands.
***
Dolt
I wouldn’t have thought
your kiss could be more barbed,
get more bitter,
but then haven’t I been wrong about everything else?
***
It Happened Again
That accident left everyone a little shook up.
I, for one, have always been far more afraid of forest fires and mud slides,
but you said I should put down the bottle anyway,
toss all the canisters and well-wishing willpower.
You promised me good light,
sunshine and sky.
But I’ve been waiting here since then,
watching women wail and cackle on TV,
and not one of them has an answer
or a word from you.
So, here’s a tip and a toast,
a slug and a pithy saying I’ll be sure to recite later on,
once the drunk’s wore off.