finally, you are a poem

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.

By Eleanor Jackson

Eleanor Jackson is a Filipino Australian poet, performer, arts producer, cyclist, writer, gal about town, feminist, freewheeler, and friend.

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