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One Thing It Was

Of course it was animus projection
or neurosis. It was her search for God.
Her Dionysian-lack. A yen to frequent
artists, a weakness for Italian males.

Perhaps just a failure to pray?
Call it recherché du temps perdu
(they were fifty). It was her Dickinsonian
quest for spiritual bliss, a fatal infatuation.

It was her old trick of giving-in-order-
to-receive. Both of their failed bondings
at homes. Unfaithfulness, and guilt, and sin.
Unliberated leanings on the wrong men.

Fascination with fire and butterflies.
But then, after all labeling, fashionable
name-calling, blaming, nit-picking second
guesses, some simple, quite out-moded facts

remain: one thing it was was love.

- The Paris Review / Blue, Candled in January Sun

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