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Posts Tagged ‘romance’


 
 
For two hours, I am the woman
who works at the orphanage, the woman
who falls in love with a man from India
who is not who he says he is.
He and I make love for hours beneath a mirror,
twining our limbs in a sea of silk,
and he shows me the pleasure
of losing the stories I’ve told myself
about what is possible with love.
When, after many pages, we arrive at happily ever after,
I find myself on the couch in my kitchen,
notice my own thick legs curled beneath me,
my own raw heart in my tired chest
doing its faithful work. I’m surprised
to return to my own story:
the woman who is grieving—the woman
in the empty room who listens
for the voice that isn’t there, who listens
for the footsteps that do not come.
I am the woman whose son took his life;
rewrite: I am the woman still learning how to love him.
For the last two hours, I had forgotten her,
had forgotten this woman whose story I know as my own.
I had forgotten the ache she carries,
the constant throb. Though it cuts, though it wounds,
I am so grateful to return to her life,
to her story—the story of how she gave her everything
to someone she loved, how she knows he loved her, too.
Though their story isn’t one she had wanted to live,
it’s the story she would never give up, not a second of it.
He is still teaching her, even now, even now.
Such a gift to be this woman being rewritten by love,
love with its infinite ink. Even now,
she meets the next blank page of her life.
Love holds the pen.

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She walks without a stutter
in her high heel books
and her low-necked poems
get her long enjambed looks.

But there’s a limp in her throat
when she thinks of him
and his hard, ripped verse
and his slant-rhymed limbs.

So she slips on her finest
red metaphors—
oh her silken triolets
are iambic whores

and sooner than swoon
all her tropes slide off
as his trochees meet her spondees
and there aren’t beats enough

for all the grooves they scan
as their feet go fractal.
Let’s free verse it, baby,
he whispers in her dactyl.

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