So he just looks at her
as if she were a book
he had held
so long, marked
so much, turned to
time and again, and
done with and
Ricardo M. de Ungria, Pidgin Levitations
It is a kind of love, is it not?
How the cup holds the tea,
How the chair stands sturdy and foursquare,
How the floor receives the bottoms of shoes
Or toes. How soles of feet know
Where they’re supposed to be.
I’ve been thinking about the patience
Of ordinary things, how clothes
Wait respectfully in closets
And soap dries quietly in the dish,
And towels drink the wet
From the skin of the back.
And the lovely repetition of stairs.
And what is more generous than a window?
You conclude: “Do you want to kiss me?”
I turn my face away while my eyes furtively peek at your lips.”
by Margaret Atwood
I would like to watch you sleeping,
which may not happen.
I would like to watch you,
sleeping. I would like to sleep
with you, to enter
your sleep as its smooth dark wave
slides over my head.
and walk with you through that lucent
wavering forest of bluegreen leaves
with its watery sun & three moons
towards the cave where you must descend,
towards your worst fear
I would like to give you the silver
branch, the small white flower, the one
word that will protect you
from the grief at the center
of your dream, from the grief
at the center. I would like to follow
you up the long stairway
again & become
the boat that would row you back
carefully, a flame
in two cupped hands
to where your body lies
beside me, and you enter
it as easily as breathing in
I would like to be the air
that inhabits you for a moment
only. I would like to be that unnoticed
& that necessary.
I read somewhere that the person we love is made
of 72.8% water. I think this permits me the possibility
of drinking you up (all soft skin and bones), disregarding
what you possibly taste like (discounting
the death of this fantasy -
all with a single gulp), discarding everything
I do not need: cannot consume.
I do not understand the making of our bodies,
why must we be made of water? All finicky,
fickle, fluid: insides a mess of flotsam -
flimsy waves of desire pounding
within the walls of these vessels
about to burst
from so little love.