He came to me out of the dreamy fog, wearing an ornate mask.
Without a word, he put his firm mouth against mine —
then gently coaxed my lips apart with his lips and tongue —
urging me to unfold like a dewy blossom.
I knew he was the lovely articulate man I had met at the store.
He had bemoaned his struggle to quit smoking.
His hair was combed back from his fine face.
This dream was a baksheesh of hope for an abandoned woman.
What to do?
I don’t know, but this I surely comprehend:
I cannot bear to look at the moon or stars except when I am with you.
To look at your photos gives me a twist of joy and pain,
except knowing you would be mine.
To study anything to do with your country
brings a lump to my throat.
Arranged marriages of any nation bode me ill.
I cannot bear images of young men with brides
or men holding babies or children.
I’m like a specter gazing at what she can never have
with you. I die.
I wish you to prosper.
How could I hope to be your happiness
in place of all your dreams?
I love you enough to sacrifice all.
I simply do not know what the “all” should be.
Surely not you.
how many congratulations
how many condolences would this entail —
my heart’s breath.
spark visions of sparklers in childhood Julys.
When time to light them came in the twilight
after an eternally sunny day,
I felt like a fairy holding a potent wizard wand.
There were never enough sparklers
for my brother and me
on those firefly lit nights.
Like not enough eggnog,
never enough chocolate covered cherries
When I became a responsible adult,
I drank a quart of eggnog and
ate a pound of chocolate cherries
in one sitting.
That night I didn’t sleep
because of the cannonball in my stomach.
I was cured.
I love being satiated.
Like with you.
I cannot get enough of you,
my silken magic carpet navigator.
There is not a cure exists.
Today I marched for the innocents,
victims of the haters of the dissimilar desperate.
Where your feet go, tells who you are every day.
One can grow weary on feet of clay —
remnants of our greatness eroding away.
It is not of ability, but of will.
Love is the footsore person’s cure.