Fear of Intimacy

I just don't know if I can SLAM...

I don’t want to memorize my poems.
I don’t ever want that kind of intimacy
with anyone or anything, other than my wife.
I don’t want to caress the subtle inflections
In tone and pitch born of original spin.
I don’t want to nibble on the lobes of
Self-serving word play as some kind
Of hopeful, analytical foreplay, nor
Scrutinize the acrobatics of mind and tongue
as written word is given voice – for better or worse.
I’m not comfortable with the carnal knowledge
Sprung from exploring lexicon, slowly, deeply, explicitly –
confidential conversations with myself
committed to paper and, thusly,
bound by the bulky, unflattering bodice
of two dimensions.
Upon the recital of each uncertain stanza,
Each line lacking that little something,
Each loose syllable, would I not confront,
headlong, my own performance anxiety?
Was it good for you?
Was it good for me?
Always examining my awkward alliteration
And perfunctory pace and mundane mechanics.
Never quite happy with the way I’ve dressed my words
Or the way we relate to each other – the way we don’t
Talk for days, weeks, years sometimes.
And asking myself ,
“Why couldn’t IT have been something…special?”
It’s not you, poems. It’s me. I’m sorry.
I just can’t do this anymore.
Let’s just be friends.
I’ll always carry a little
Piece of you...in my pocket
But I can’t, and I won’t, commit you to memory;
I’m not able to know you by heart,
Because mine belongs to another.

© 2009, Jeff Wilson