Wednesday, November 30, 2016

a request

be my star, be it all
the whole and the fragment, the gas and the brake
the soaring acrobat, the waiting net
be the blackest coffee, the sweetest cream
be the scowl on the man with the hastily tied scarf
be the woman clackety-clacking the paving stones
be the bag of volcanic salt in my suitcase,
stored in the basement of a Reykjavik hotel
be the hurt in my hands from writing
be my aging body that finds stealth in the marrow
the vocabulary not rich enough to say how or why

be the man who comes to say goodbye one week
and returns to say hello the next
be lovely loving love-ish for me, 
  all hands and lips and heart
be the air we breathe in and out, urban 
  yet holy and sacred
be laughter and daffodyls
be all the ampersands ever, in every size and font
be every letter ‘I’ in every book everywhere
be the accent on the letter e lifting an eyebrow 
  this way or that

above all, be the woman in the black sweater 
  and red lips
running into the wind, all joy
be the handwriting that tells this tale 
  and the coffee shop in which it is told
be open-arms and the pull of embrace
be everything you are called to be and nothing less
be the one who accepts this invitation 
  and every invitation
who knows no other word than yes
be an expanding galaxy of want
a meteor shower of kisses
be legs entwined and languid 
  with contentment
be the shoes that walk you to your beloved’s door
and be for him the pack of matches that 
  steadies a wobbling table
then lights the spark that shows you both the way

be the one thing you will always remember 
  and the million you will forget
be the one green leaf on a dying tree that shyly waves 
  at the erratic sparrows
be the sweetness in the sugar bowl 
  and the curving tongue of spoon
be the home you long for
be that beautiful ginger dog who will teach you 
  more about closeness
than all the heartbreaks combined

be every single picnic table we will never 
  grace with food
be the weight we will lose for forgetting to eat
be the man you are, the woman I am
the push to my shove
the hand in my glove
the treasured ache known as love

we might fail

there have been two nights
one here, one there
to which we have brought
our observant and curious selves

nights a week apart, now weeks past
that said yes as much as no
less as much as more
and left questions slithering
through the unquick grasp of answers

we each revealed what scraps remain
from the wounded and aging parts of us
that still pulse with shy hope,
scattering them as offerings
on the altar of our incredulity
that years of small talk
seeded such fierce embraces

these fragments may not be enough
to forge a key that unbolts the hatch
we must pass through
to find a language given only to us
and the courage to speak it

even if luck and daring allow us that far
still we might fail to secure
any number of bowlines tossed
across the chasm
between your hopes and mine

yet I, nonetheless, will place
into the palm of your reticence
an invitation to join your fears with mine
and shape these unknowns
into oars we might row
through deep, mysterious waters
in a boat we have yet to name