Tuesday, November 28, 2017

dumpster fire love

Your love, Oh Lord,
is like fire subsuming all the trash
charred in the dumpster out back—
discarded love notes and Natty Lite cans.

I do not anticipate it,
so I do not notice it.
And I do my utmost to avoid it.

Oh Lord, to whom shall we go?
How can we appreciate what we do not understand?

A semester's worth of taking the other sidewalk,
pausing at the front door on a Tuesday,
timing texting so our gazes do not meet,
dodging stilted encounters
(before breakfast is too early in the day for awkward).

Today the sun shines brightly,
I squint into it.

The thing that usually squirms inside me
rests today—
An embarrassment evaporates.

I smile, secure in a safety
I hadn't felt before.
Thinking, that this, yea, e'en this,
is purgation, is it not—

Is this what love feels like?
November grass suffused in sunlight,
stray ruby leaves clinging to the trees,
deep waters quelling deep within,
turbulence calming into stillness—


which leads to:
Nothing has changed,
except my hands—
clinging less to self and
more to you.

And my eyes,
which look ahead
and smile.

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