Jacalyn den Haan

There are two loves: 

the first ends in desertion

the second, being torn away

 

The pain of the first wrings my body 

more likely into frozen knots

but sometimes it catapults me

across the space between sanity and fire

until every place I stand in is unsafe

and I run

I run

run 

 

The second is solace, a revolution. It carries

but simple demands: to be relived 

or remembered

or released