PoetryAloud

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Robert King Reads

At Fifteen

At the first hard shock, a first love
overturned in the instant of a letter,
I was burned by the hurt, if not

in the heart, that tight affectionate knot,

then in the chest, an ache swelling up.

That night I lay in bed watching the rain

burst over our small troubled trees

and cried, mostly from pain but partly,

that young, in tune with the storm’s torrent,

until I stopped. But then, wanting back

that bitter pang, I counted up

every lost thing until I broke out again,

glorying in my new sadness,

delighted to feel it, to feel, my small life
as large as the worldly rain.

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