Sugar
Just supposing,
I’ve had all the love due to me.
It is done.
And this heart that tries not to yearn
Is a design fault.
I was meant to be cold,
Or indifferent,
Or scheming,
Make the most of the guilt,
And the half hearts,
The promises meant
With best before dates.
Just God’s hand wobbled
Over the test tube,
A few grains split.
The spoonful went to another,
Who will always perplex
The other that loves him,
Why he doesn’t seem able
To dissolve into oneness,
As two souls do.
So they tell me.
Maybe that’s it,
God’s wobbly hand
Gives some of us spoonfuls,
Others just grains,
Of sweetness, so pure.
But all designed
To receive the full dose,
And nothing to tell us
Why indifferent could be better,
How cold would release us,
From the sentence unearned
Of a wobbling hand.
