Incarnation, Incantation

Picking petals

off a bouquet of red carnations.

He loves me not, he loves me not.

Pleasures last until they die,

or they kill you.

Youth blackens in the flesh.

You're 30. Then you're 40.

Roll the window down.

The clouds and the countryside

don't make you feel at all

like they used to.

Every decade comes on

quicker than the last

like labor pains.

The man you never said you loved

has blue eyes like the winter.

Passion becomes snowmelt

when the sun crowns the hills.

Each year his smile deepens.

Once he seemed immune to fear.

In April he held your hand—

but your heart kept right on beating.

There was no quickening.

No magic words.

Love me not, forget me not.

No incantation ever uttered

to bring the living

back to life.