Asshole’s Day

Along with Thanksgiving, Halloween,
and Valentine’s Day, there ought to be a
day of remembrance for crimes against love.

We could call it Anteros’ Day in
recollection of the Greek god who
was the avenger of unrequited love.

This mythic detective pursued his perps
armed with a golden club and arrows of
lead. In ancient statuary he often appeared
opposite to Eros on Aphrodite’s scales of love
(and so, seems linked with “Erotic Justice”).

In the Northern Hemisphere, his holy day
could occur at the Winter Solstice, the
dark asshole in the calendar when the life
force has contracted like a sphincter,
and we are the farthest from the sun.

Forgive any gender-typing...
But in acknowledging our neurotic crimes
against love, men could beat our breasts
with rolled-up porn magazines,
have ashes sprinkled on our heads

And not be allowed in Starbuck’s. Nor
should any sports be televised that
day. (Women might have their own
form of penance: To forego chocolate,
Facebook, and romantic comedies.)

Central to this day of atonement would be
the writing or speaking of heart-felt apologies
to all past or present lovers who deserve,
but have yet to receive one.

I should write one to DL for example,
apologizing for my horrific, ill-attuned
selfishness that dreadful night 20 years ago
when I might have resembled Harvey Weinstein

Though it pains me to admit it,
I shouldn’t have been so shocked
that she wrote me out of her life.

And now that I think about it, the same
 is true of JLC if for the opposite reason:
The way I blamed her for my own insecurities
--while lacking the courage to even mention them.

In learning how to love better, our inner
Anteros might launch a ruthlessly probing
study of what's gotten in the way. (And why
I now cringe in remembrance of an awful,
shaming comment I made over 40 years ago
to JS about her vagina...)

But since none of these ladies are answering
my emails—let me confess here of my sins,
and of how slowly I’ve been

To realize those whom we've loved
still live inside us in some way—not
replaceable—nor are the unique
charms and virtues they offered.

And I'd want them to know
that daily I bear the perfect severity
of how I was weighed and judged
on Love’s scales of Justice

Where my sentence was
to be haunted by memories
of remarkable women

I could have loved better
—while condemned to live
the rest of my life without them.