washed
Washed over -
more renewed than overcome.
Mouth open, catching fresh
bits of torrent,
I will, laughing, make them calm.
I swallow, turn uproar gentle.
And had you been that gentle -
had you not turned me over,
had you approached with calm
heart instead of need to overcome -
we might have withstood the torrent,
come through it bonded fresh.
Your name could once burn me fresh.
Its sound was anything but gentle;
its letters joined in torrent.
A difficult spell, now written over.
Your penmanship was overcome,
made way for wiser calm.
Disconcerted by the calm,
you thought to seek me fresh:
a newly-strong thing to overcome.
If you could play at gentle
inquisitor, I might be twice won over,
welcoming the torrent.
Oh, how I loved that torrent -
dreamt of underlying calm,
played scenes over and over,
kept snatches of emotion fresh.
Oh, how I imagined you gentle,
and I was overcome.
You came to me, overcome
by well-constructed torrent:
the man I'd hoped to gentle,
and his late-accomplished calm.
"Baby, let's start fresh.
It can't be--please say it isn't over."
And I was overcome with calm.
And I, washed by the torrent, fresh-
intoned a gentle chorus: It's over.
* This poem is a sestina. To learn more about this form, visit Wordcarvers.
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written works © April Palleria, 2002