He spoke of a river deep and dark
that carries enchantment
in its waves and
makes whoever drinks or bathes
there greatly drowsy.
Not just drowsy, no,
but also likely to forget
whatever thoughts they thought
they knew. And that, he said,
you mustn’t do.
Perhaps it’s just as well
that he did not pass on
the ancient map
that told of where
the river could be found,
for I am very curious,
and I’m inclined to take your hand
and wade in currents
dark and deep
and let the waters do their deed
and lose these thoughts
of should and was
and wish and want and how,
then lay there on the shadowed banks
and shiver, mind and thoughts erased
and let the first thing that I see
be you. And naked there,
without recall, would we shyly
let our eyes fall to the forest floor?
Be lovers never more?
Or would we look at our own hands
not knowing how the scars were made
and reach for each other unafraid
forgetful of how love is both the bandage and the knife,
both wound and salve, both bliss and ache.
I do not need a river, love, I do not
need a map. I choose you. Yes, I see the scars.
I choose you. Here, these hands
are yours. I choose you. I remember.
And I choose you. You remember, too.
Perhaps some day we will forget
the how, the who, the pang, the love despite.
Not yet.
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