BY DAVIDMURRAYLAW@GMAIL.COM

Mea Culpa

 

 

 

 

 

Egon Schiele, self-portrait, 1910

Courtesy of the Albertina Museum, Vienna

This is an apology 

an official one

to all those ladies

(the three or four...) 

to whom I promised too much

and delivered too little. 

 

Am I guilty of 

fabrication or 

dissimulation or 

misrepresentation or 

or any of those other heavy nouns 

that creep into our language? 

 

Yes and no.

I wanted you to take flight with me

in a way you had never done before

I pumped up my chest,

rehearsed my discourse,

sought out my sexiest socks.

 

But I fell short in my propos.

Perhaps, I didn't love you enough.

Perhaps, I loved myself too much.

Perhaps, you didn't love me enough.

Perhaps, you loved yourself too much,

Perhaps, other winds were stirring that neither of us could comprehend.

 

All this conspires to turn the simplicity 

that we seek in our relationships 

into the complexity that we reap.

This is not a plea for monogamy. 

I do not wish that we retreat into small spaces, 

fugitives from love and affection.

 

We need one another, 

but this requires a penchant 

for tolerance and understanding 

that few of us discover

until we are so old and wise 

that it is too late.  

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