Linda M. Crate- Three Poems

trying to forget

you fancy yourself sherlock holmes
with your pipe and jacket,
but the detective
has a kindlier nature than yours;
you're professor moriarty
convinced of your brilliance—
or maybe irene addler
because you
kill all of my sense until i'm scrabbling
on my knees,
and i know you're bad for me
hate myself for loving you
there's watson always telling me that
i'm mad to care;
he's right, i know, i know—
yet the way you smirk at me, the way you
smile so sweetly
you disarm me with your snark
and your caustic wit
sometimes catches me off guard and makes
me laugh;
you can't help whom you fall in love with
even if, sometimes, it's
with a sociopath—
goodbye, irene, you've already killed me
it's time for me rise from my ashes
solve another crime
forget your face
in the poplars when i walk past;
try to forget so i don't
remember.


have you seen the rain?

do you remember, irene?
when you told
me you liked to dance in the rain?
i still dance
sometimes i wonder if you do, too,
wherever you disappeared
to,
and whomever's holding your hand;
it can't be me, i know
even if i wish it could—
humans have a penchant for wanting
exactly what's perfectly wrong for them
i wonder if
that was why i was drawn to you
if one of your most
alluring traits was the fact i could never
have you,
and perhaps there's a part of me
that always knew it would be this way;
loathe as i am to admit it—
thought maybe we could rewrite history or
maybe i could
rewrite you,
but it seems neither of us got what we wanted
as we both stand alone in a crowded room
i can't recognize the person you've
become,
and i doubt you'd recognize me
dancing in this rain
as if it'd bring you smiling back to me.


a love that's foolish

once i died,
but it really wasn't
death
unlike you
laying there lifeless
never to rise
again;
perhaps, it's a blessing
that your poison
love
can no longer dance through
me, but i don't think
so—
i miss you,
and i know i shouldn't
because you're long gone and in
the arms of another;
jarring up
emotions i think would be rather
be left alone—
they got it wrong when they said
it was better to have loved
and lost than to have
never loved at all,
perhaps,
it's selfish but i'd rather have a whole
heart instead of this shattered
thing;
irene, i wish you could come back to me—
for someone so brilliant
it's foolishness, i know, but when has
that ever stopped me?