A Noble Concession Poem by Tara Teeling

Your anguish is in my blood
and it gives me breath,
erasing my various maladies
and self-inflicted afflictions.
The light shines,
glows you and shows you
and I am somehow more relevant.

Weep a little in the corner,
and I will smile as I inhale
the clean, blackberry winter air.
The pity which wraps me up,
has holes in its fabric,
and yet, I am curiously warmed by it
just the same.
Far too lovely a comfort
to let me consider the reasons why.

The crown on my head
is an imperfect fit,
yet the weight of it assures me
that it is there, nonetheless.
The diamonds are March pond cold,
and the rubies brim with blood,
and this is beautiful.

While I’d like to lend a hand,
both are holding the empress wreath in place,
maintaining the order I favour.
Offering one to you,
would make it all come down
pooling at my feet,
drama dissolved and flooding me,
eradicating the untenable walls
that I‘d once had about me.

I would melt,
in spite of this bitter skin,
into the floor,
seeping through the cracks
staining the wood,
leaving evidence of my frailty
written in the grooves and grains.
My charms would be scattered
like rolling, cat-eyed marbles,
which possess no obvious value.

I have no wish
to see you wear the sadness
but it is better, for me,
that you own the misery.
It is not disdain, nor
some sort of slow-moving wrath
which compels me to deviate
the path of this merciless ill
toward you.

It is only survival.