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| back to who we are
we are not formal place settings
with five different plates
and bowls and a teacup that matches
we are not going to buy our legacy
to leave our grandchildren after we die
our legacy cannot be bought at bed bath and beyond
our love cannot be symbolized in a platinum band,
or certainly not one surrounding a set of dishes.
we are not consumption
we want to be mosquito nets.
we do not want to register for expensive camping gear,
but for water for those who die of preventable diseases.
we are our engagement ring
we are imperfect
we are changing, we are growing
we are political
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| i want to get married carrying wildflowers that are purple
and untamed and
make me sneeze.
because
what is life, if not that that causes a reaction? i want to wear white,
ivory because i am pure
and incomplete with you and
my hair will probably be a little tangled.
i will be your vision,
your anything but
Ophelia, because i am alive.
i too am
wildflowers, i too cause allergies.
and
instead of being “solved’ by pharmaceuticals,
i will be celebrated with love
and potlucks and church basements and lake water.
the dingy yellow of old linoleum
will rejoice
beneath my bare feet and we will dance
unhindered and unchained.
we will sweat, and
my armpits will stink and
fade into the dark brown that is always there
even when i do shave because my
hair follicles are too big for airbrushed eyes.
i will wrap my arms around you, my too tiny hands will
clasp around your
neck and i will kiss your breath that
smells like potatoes. i will be your potato lover,
your wildflower
strength,
your prairie stubborn and deep-rooted.
by the time the day ends, my feet will be soled
black from dirt
(and oh, I will not be wearing pantyhose,)
and tangled with
your legs. we will begin again,
born
anew and imperfect and bathed in sweat
(broth of the womb, where new life
percolates) | | |
| my love for you makes me regret loving my mom's lasagna
and bike-riding and spring time and dogs. it makes me
regret loving psychology and even sometimes people and
the woods and ethnic food and movies that make me cry.
my love for you
makes me wish
i had a word that was
yours only.
because yours in the only love i wake up wrapped in when
you aren't even in the room, or sometimes the state. yours
is the only love that speaks to me in a crowed room and i
feel alone, but alone with you and thus satisfied. yours is
what i want for all i want and all of my words fall cheap &
short. my love for you makes me wish i had some nonsense
noise, clicking babble that made sense that i could click or
sing or whisper to myself at night that was yours only.
i wish a word monogamous with you.
| | |
| i know uncertain and unequivocal
certainly there are those who are better for me
more compatible, more handsome, more something
but you are something i (need? desire?)
(i don't like those verbs-they are selfish and make you inanimate)
you are something that was missing in me.
together we stand incomplete waiting for salvation
on shifting sand uncertainty we stand together
this is no perfect story, no formula to follow,
no physical sensation to watch for, no cognitive process to observe.
(that stand as the gauge of a lifetime daily decision)
my commitment to you is first and foremost a commitment.
out of attraction grows commitment grows love
(if commitment dies, the rest shrivels away too.)
you are my imperfectly wonderful something.
i do not know. relatively, i barely know you.
and yet, i know.
| | |
| almost everytime i wish i could take a picture of your exact expression
as you float above rooted to me. your eyes are warm and your lips smile
slightly parted. you are breath, warm, encompassing, constant. i wish i could
pause time for one second and memorize your eyes and make them a
background only i can see. you call me luck and you are my grace. so totally
undeserved and inexplicable. your hair is my curtain i part the screens and
take you in, take in this world you've given. cliches fall so short of you
and words cannot do you justice. haven, i lie beneath you and see stars.
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