The Lover

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Part One.

I fell in love
because I could not see him;
I fell in love
because I could not touch him.

I fell in love.
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In the beginning,
The Lover appeared—
once,
twice,
three times.
He seemed like a man,
a very lovely man…
lovely eyes
the shape of the moon
on clear summer nights.
Hands like lightning,
striking a nearby tree.

In the beginning, it was three times.

We met
Three Times.

—And then,
and then,
he
(the seeming man),
was gone.
He returned to his country,
and his hands were no more.
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The weeping was beyond weeping.
The winter was death.

So I began to sing.
Beg.
Offer gifts of poem and proclamation,
endless walks with water and tree.

I prayed,

I prayed,

I prayed.

The earth and the cruel, voluptuous sky:
my only companions.

They never answered.

So I prayed more.

I could not see him anymore.
I could not touch him anymore.
There was nothing,
anymore.
The way his empty hand
never fit into mine;
The way his faraway heart
never near
to whisper or soothe.

This continued.

And then…I simply gave up.

I said no.

This was too much: this terrible “missing.”

This terrible thing from the poetry books and romance films.

No, not for me.

I gave up.

 

Part Two.

Giving up was the moment I found you.

You, the real You.

The real Beloved.

You!

It was Eyes, looking
back
into itself.
It was the Girl, the girl from the convex mirror.
It was the Boy, the boy who smiled
when they said the mirror was cracked.
It was memories,
past lives
now clean:
two sisters,
swearing to sing forever…
All gone now. All clean.

All the brothers and mothers and children
finally
finally
at peace.

It was love.
It was lightning
striking the tree
from the window
we cannot see.

It was Love, in truest form.

It was Me.

 

 

Language

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I think of our house.
The one that was ours.
Nipples, thighs,
and never a storm.

A house encircled by palm.
Flocks of orange-winged
blackbirds,
each morning,
speaking our name.

XOXO
XOXO

The Wheel

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1.
Time is a wheel
and we are on it.

We are on it.
2.
2.
Please note
the delicacy of this motion.

For it is not with a gusting
thrusting weight,
nor with a bustling, hustling fervor
no.
Rather:
quietly,
unassumingly,
it enters.
No announcement.
No word.

3.
3.
It is the pure spin of a blue jay’s wing,
weightless,
midair,
contemplating nothing.

It is a bird, frozen in time,
yet soaring forward
as we all tend to do.

As we all tend to do.