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Our two anonymous Valentines are poems written by former contributors to The Fairfield Review. --egh

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By Anonymous

There is so much to say and
no words with which to
communicate.

I listen to the radio,
sure there is a song whose lyrics I can steal.
But the music never uncovers all the feeling,
though the rhythms sometimes come
close.

I read the works of others,
longing for a poem, a sonnet,
a window or clue.
Searching the great names, I find that
no one has combined the right
nouns and verbs and adjectives
for me.

I dig deeply into the dictionary and thesaurus and find only
descriptions for the void:
the deep, throbbing of a heart that pulls on the
fiercely tangled stomach and the
taut, strained lungs.

Where are the
words?
I remain mute
as
my soul becomes raw in its
openness,

no phrases to suture it,

no incantations to soothe it,

no stories to numb it.
Oh,
if only I knew the language
to breathe
the whole
of all the feeling
and meaning
out of my body
and
into
yours.

Please read the companion piece, Love Poem, in this issue