I meditated on you tonight.
Well,
not on you,
obviously I haven’t done anything on you
in months
years even
but on the idea of you,
which was probably what I was in love with
if we were to be honest with one another
and if at all you could accept the idea
that I, Cerberus to your deceitful love,
hell-hound of your past, present and future
(or just that bitch you dated once)
was capable of love
or even just approaching a lazy version of it.
Love: the idea of a woman as fierce as a lion
or a beach or a bed,
the insatiable existing that is life.
A wet Labrador
beating its tail
on the rug on an autumn afternoon
knocks a tea cup to the floor,
which spills,
staining the Persian reality brown.
All this emerged from the Om
of you.
I might as well have masturbated
with a chain around my neck
for all the relief it gave me.
eleanor j jackson 