Risks

We don’t take them
like we used to
like we planned to
like we promised ourselves
we would when we were
young and brave
and much more beautiful
than we thought we were.
Risks were never quite
as life or death
as they are now in this
losable house that is paid for,
in this blue room
with darker blue curtains
which keep out the sun
and its daily promise
of bright happy endings.
I cannot write the letter
that I’ve meant to write
for twenty years
because I don’t know
what kind of audience
will be standing around
in the kitchen
when the mail is dumped
onto the table, or who might
follow you with curiosity
when you exit the room
holding the envelope
with both our names
handwritten on the front.
Wouldn’t I risk upsetting
your contentment
with an account of our love
and our losses?
No.
I fear
it’s my own contentment
at risk if I find myself
waiting for a reply
that may never come.

DeMaris Gaunt
6-18-15

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