Friday, March 14, 2014


There was a poem in my head the other day,  it stared at me with break light eyes on a dim bus. 

The poem began with, "Assume. Assume he engineers all those moments for you. He lays them out, just so you can smile and laugh and think 'synchronicity'"

That isn't how it started.

I don't remember how it started.

That is half a truth. The poem started while I was contracting, while I was feeling the clouds, and her uterine lining.

The poem started, then.

The poem started with the idea that nothing is coincidence, that all the electric moments where hands brush, or where one wavers into the other --all those moments are planned.

The poem is the edge and the gusty day that stilled our lips with its strength.

The poem tried to talk about the bird calls, and the muddy water we swam in, and how we both laughed and swopped the dirt from our eyes.

"Assume," I thought, "That he waited breathlessly for you to take his rook, knight your pawn and threaten his king."

No. None of that is true. Until just now the poem wasn't a chess metaphor.

The poem isn't chess because the poem is not combative. The poem is collaborative. Like, hands holding; that fluttered until touching, then were earth steady. Hands that pulled us through museums to see the next favorite painting.

The poem was outstretched hands and a red hooded sweater on a dark, cool, summer fire escape.

Assume he wants to as much as you do.

Assume you're thinking synchronously.

Assume you know their secrets and momentary fantasies (because you do).

Assume you know the questions.
(because the poem recalled the re-getting-to-know-you of it all.)

Assume the darkest, closest moments.

That was the refrain to the poem, but the three stanzas are gone.

Just love, hiding in the falter of a wonky tongue.