Revision 3
One day, it will slip
Am I wrong
for not tying the string
in an angry burn
around your wrist?
There will soon be another
slip: that solemn face,
those cold lips pressed
against your cheek.
Even in the heat
of new love, you’ll wonder
why the moonlight lies
on your skin like a bleaching stain,
why your fingertips remain icy—
why you shiver uncontrollably.
On that day, you’ll learn
what I already know.
I cannot protect you
from being alone.
~~~
Revision 2
The Red Balloon
One day, it will slip
from your fingers—
as it slipped from mine,
as it has from every child.
Am I wrong
for not tying the string
in an angry burn
around your wrist?
One day, you will feel.
another slip: that solemn face,
those cold lips pressed
against your cheek.
Even in the heat
of new love, you’ll wonder
why the moonlight lies
on your skin like a bleaching stain,
why your fingertips remain icy—
that you shiver uncontrollably.
On that day, you’ll learn
what I already know.
I cannot protect you
from being alone.
~~~
Revision
The Red Balloon
One day, it will slip
from your fingers—
as it slipped from mine,
as it has from every child
ever born.
Am I wrong
for not tying the string
in an angry burn
around your wrist?
One day, it will also slip.
That solemn face,
those cold lips pressed
against your cheek.
Even in the heat
of new love, you’ll wonder
why the moonlight lies
on your skin like a bleaching stain,
why your fingertips remain icy—
that you shiver uncontrollably.
On that day, you’ll learn
what I already know.
I cannot protect you
from being alone.
~~~
What Must Come (original)
One day, the red balloon
will slip from your fingers—
as it slipped from mine,
as it has from every child
ever born.
Am I wrong
for not tying the string tight
in an angry circle, a burn
around your wrist?
One day, you won’t even hear
her words, as if spoken from
a great distance across a chasm.
You’ll remember a solemn face,
cold lips pressed against your cheek.
Years later in the heat of new love,
you’ll wonder why your fingertips remain icy,
that you shiver uncontrollably.
In that moment, you’ll find yourself
standing on the moist, frost-covered earth
the ground stained by the kills
of a solitary owl screeching
its plaintive cry.
On that day, you’ll learn
what I already know.
I cannot protect you
from being alone.
One day, it will slip
Am I wrong
for not tying the string
in an angry burn
around your wrist?
There will soon be another
slip: that solemn face,
those cold lips pressed
against your cheek.
Even in the heat
of new love, you’ll wonder
why the moonlight lies
on your skin like a bleaching stain,
why your fingertips remain icy—
why you shiver uncontrollably.
On that day, you’ll learn
what I already know.
I cannot protect you
from being alone.
~~~
Revision 2
The Red Balloon
One day, it will slip
from your fingers—
as it slipped from mine,
as it has from every child.
Am I wrong
for not tying the string
in an angry burn
around your wrist?
One day, you will feel.
another slip: that solemn face,
those cold lips pressed
against your cheek.
Even in the heat
of new love, you’ll wonder
why the moonlight lies
on your skin like a bleaching stain,
why your fingertips remain icy—
that you shiver uncontrollably.
On that day, you’ll learn
what I already know.
I cannot protect you
from being alone.
~~~
Revision
The Red Balloon
One day, it will slip
from your fingers—
as it slipped from mine,
as it has from every child
ever born.
Am I wrong
for not tying the string
in an angry burn
around your wrist?
One day, it will also slip.
That solemn face,
those cold lips pressed
against your cheek.
Even in the heat
of new love, you’ll wonder
why the moonlight lies
on your skin like a bleaching stain,
why your fingertips remain icy—
that you shiver uncontrollably.
On that day, you’ll learn
what I already know.
I cannot protect you
from being alone.
~~~
What Must Come (original)
One day, the red balloon
will slip from your fingers—
as it slipped from mine,
as it has from every child
ever born.
Am I wrong
for not tying the string tight
in an angry circle, a burn
around your wrist?
One day, you won’t even hear
her words, as if spoken from
a great distance across a chasm.
You’ll remember a solemn face,
cold lips pressed against your cheek.
Years later in the heat of new love,
you’ll wonder why your fingertips remain icy,
that you shiver uncontrollably.
In that moment, you’ll find yourself
standing on the moist, frost-covered earth
the ground stained by the kills
of a solitary owl screeching
its plaintive cry.
On that day, you’ll learn
what I already know.
I cannot protect you
from being alone.
The secret of poetry is cruelty.--Jon Anderson