We avoid the details.
Naming the poisons.
giving each one a name or gory description,
more fond of soft words,
lessening the blow.
It is not, after all, their battle. It is yours.
But now and again it leaks out.
The darkness. The pain.
The things we do not name,
but are recognized none the less.
For we are less transparent
than we believe. And those that love us
see deeper than we know.
I am never sure if the secret keeping
is a kindness or a cruelty.
Who are we saving from what?
And who are we keeping
from the fullness of their compassion?
About this poem
Feeling philosophic this morning. I am the guiltiest offender.