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On Sunday, June twenty-second, I wept.

The afternoon rain had past.  The sun, beginning to set,

filled the sky with the effulgence of its light:

I doubt I shall ever entirely forget

that scene---in my memory safely kept.

An overwhelming sense of despair

(inappropriate for that evening when my adolescence began),

inconsolably, I wept---

believing that the delight that is Love

would not reach me there.

I felt as if my heart had leapt

into my throat and would be forever caught

in that gullet.  I turned to prayer

as the stars began to emerge in the sky above

my parents' house (in which I was not allowed to walk barefoot):

to clumsy words I brought

this first emotion, whose presence

was mocked by unfamiliarity

and a sense of existential futility,

inappropriate to the emergence of my adolescence

on that very day.

I could not put

my soul's position into words.  In the slow hours of that night,

(when the pastel colors of that late-spring ran

into a smear of metallic or concrete gray)

when I should have slept,

I mourned the presumed absence from my life of Love.

So, I lay in my solitary, melancholic bed . . . and wept.

J-Called