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Grey Sparrow Journal

Issue 30, July 31, 2017
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SEMICOLON

 

I love her she loves me not.

A run on sentence, a stream of consciousness

with no period, comma, semicolon,

anywhere between I and not,

a confusing conjunction or lack thereof.

 

I love her. She loves me not.

That's all there is to it, period.

Two clauses more than just independent,

with two capitalized subjects

each dwelling in their own complete thought.

But alas her thought excludes mine.

 

I love her, and she loves me not.

A definitive compounding of simplicity

into yet another account of unrequited love.

 

I love her, she loves me not.

A wishy-washy comma splicing.

With I almost desperately clinging,

and she hesitant about parting.

Such a wavering split violates old rhetorical rules.

 

I love her, but she loves me not.

Yet maybe, just maybe, but means she does,

and if so then

with she in her dependent clause

and I resplendent as a capital type,

my love will surely conquer her indifference.

But would I really want such a diminutive lover

even if I got her to say, "Yes, oh yes, take me."

 

I love her; she loves me not.

That compromise semicolon,

that middling scion of period and comma

makes the cleaving between I and she

stronger than a comma but weaker than a period

and so leaves the slightest nuance of hope,

for the contranym cleave also means joining.

Upper case I and lower case she,

each of us the subject of our own independent clause,

separate and yet still in one sentence,

in that one complete thought,

I in hers and she in mine.

                                                         

                                                           —Richard Fein