Anxiety prefers a corset – clad
sufficiently in stays and braces, wins
a minor triumph over going mad –
binds up the worst of its more rabid sins –
at least for some few moments holds its breath –
white-knuckles through the tunnel of its fears –
and through some aperture sinks to the depth
required by imprisoned hearts: appears,
perhaps, quite cool, adroit and unconcerned,
as if what he did didn't mean a thing –
while underneath, strapped, tightly tied up, burned,
its ache for him chokes on the rage to bring
some closure to itself. What would relieve?
Pray for his love? Accept its absence? Grieve?