WORDCHASM

You are Maud Gonne
to my William Butler Yeats
a cold, impassive Jekyll
to my frantic, desperate Hyde
the proverbial thorn
embedded in my side
an avalanche that sits
and waits.

You are the hung jury
to my repeat offender
you are my iron lung
a phrase on the tip of my tongue
a song the words to which
I can’t remember.

My Scylla and Charibdis
a name to which I cannot
put a face
the missing link
to the origin of my race
a step
off of a precipice.

Money I do not have to burn
matches to my dying waif
stigmata
to my failing faith
a lesson I will
never learn.