a poem about making love and about writing poetry
You can always tell the ones who have loved,
like the mark borne by those who have lost.
It is in the immediacy, of their utter lack of urgency.
Their tenderness, seemingly devoid of an object or subject or…
I too am lost, to veneer that glistens over that faraway look in their eyes.
Perhaps I have misunderstood what it is to make love;
Perhaps it is not of give and take, not of the utility of satisfaction.
it is to kneel;
but not in servitude of each other.
It is to strip, to one’s roots;
but not to lay bare and be filled by one another.
Not to just be the art—but the canvass—
nor the song, but to sing from the hymnals of love
and to cast its prayers to the above.
To covet not each other, but to covet love.
To hold it in one’s hands, and to lick it;
As a mother licks a wound: with the patience of the tides.
Not to simply embrace each other, but to be enfolded.
I think poems are sent: before they are written.
That one has to empty oneself; purge of oneself,
and to wait.
There is a knowing that precedes a poem.
And that knowing is not wholly of oneself.
It is shared, it is cast
and is much older than us.
It was there before—I am,
and will remain long into the silence after we’re gone.
So covet that.