Bel Harris poetry

Bel lives in Toronto.

Oh, Love

Do you know who I am?
It’s a loaded question.
Like, “Do I look fat in this dress?”
Only much darker; with more at stake.

It slithers out near the end.
When both of you know it’s time to throw in the towel.
Do you know who I am? Did you ever really love me?

It’s a wanted ad. One heartbroken lover seeking admission of guilt!
But, you haven’t got any guilt, so what to do, what to do.
If sentimental and deluded say, “Yes, I love you always.” 
If honest say, “No – no, I don’t know.”

But, wait. That’s not true.
There was love once.
Maybe. In the beginning. At first sight.
No, wait. That’s stupid. Unrealistic. Scratch that.

Somewhere between lust and Hell freezing over.
Somewhere right in the middle,
on the nights we stayed in and played Scrabble,
there was love,staring at each other across the slowly filling board.

We get misty-eyed at the thought
of love won and lost.
We see it on the big screen
and we think to ourselves,
How explosive! How dramatic!
We won’t end up like that.

Remember that vase?The one that shattered
on the floor?

It’s cruel to say those words
“Do you know me? Do you love me?”
and expect an answer back.