Think of the frost that will crack our bones eventually
—Tom Hennen, “Love for Other Things”
Before I can love you, I hate you.
Because the frothy pink of the milkweed
and the monarch who travels thousands of miles
just to feed there. Because the dark leaves
of soybeans, millions of green hearts
per acre. Because ripe blueberries
without a hint of pucker. Because
of the touch of the man who loves me.
Because the cool breeze on my bare arms.
But to love is to open the circle
of what is beloved, to offer my attention
to the concert of crickets and crows,
to the proliferation of box elder beetles,
the weeds that infiltrate the field. Sound
of lawn mowers, jackhammers, swarm
of mosquitoes. Stench of Sulphur. Deep
snows that bury the drive.
And love says why stop there? Widen
the circle to toxic sludge. Yellow jackets.
Earwigs. Freezing sideways sleet. Men
with guns and hate in their stare. Girls
who spit disdain. And the pain
that steals sleep. And the pain
that never leaves. And the pain
that would obliterate every bright thing,
and in so doing, reveal what is most precious—
this ability to love. To love despite.
To love regardless. To love. To love
what I hate, even you, frost that will crack
my bones. Will you not be my final teacher
in how to offer my attention? Will you
not be my last great love?
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