Things Not Meant To Be (an edit)

To the attuned ear,

the saddest sound is formed

when wooden lips, that cannot be pursed

further than the gouge has them frozen at, collide

across the string divide; wooden heads held back,

legs unable to lean forward, hands open,

always searching for a clasp that cannot be.

Stromboli laughed at me,

a foolish puppet

mimicking the grandest acts

of life when I held the puppet girl close

and tried to press my lips to hers. He wept

at wood that cannot illustrate passion

except as a caricature.

Mangiafuoco was more kind;

set me free

with coins and a sad shake of his head

when he heard the tale

of two puppets kissing. He asked me

if the touch of my wooden lips to hers sufficed.

I told him I could not forget the sound

as our lips thumped together

to the tune

of earth hitting a coffin lid.

When my wood turned to skin

I sought her out again; discovered 

she had been devoured by the fire.

There was nothing left

but my memory of that time in the corner

of the tent, her arms akimbo,

legs askew, her strings

tangled, and she never said a word

as I pressed close.

I recall the texture

of  her wooded chest to mine

and in my ears I hear

the sound of  death, like that released

in a wooden club as it connects

to the small head of a fur seal pup.