I cannot explain why someone like me would pass her days in wait
But I wait for vengeance to ensnare ignorance, and finally
for ignorance himself to yield to intimacy.
You say to wait is to decay, and
in decay we forestall learning, but
sometimes all we can do is hang fire
In hopes that a hand comes seeking warmth.
Call that warmth love, or some other name,
I know only how to wait for it. But I will listen,
Wise as you are, if you would share love’s secrets.
Tell of where it thrives: Is it in the lush garden of language? — Out there with
poets, and fiends like him and his ‘chocolate coated, caramel-centred, Josephine’
She, who is bound to make his tongue go brown and limp before it falls out?
You say you have touched love’s steeply angled and forbidding mountain face
You have greeted its peaks — sharp and impossible to hold;
Its sides — barbed and slippery with frost;
And yet, sitting here,
At its mention, you smile tender as the dawn,
Its power slowly seeming to rise within you.
Your eyes flare with it, and light a fissure a year old today,
A fissure in which a blood-thirsty villain hides and everywhere
plants fiction till my mind is overrun with psychotic blooms.
He wants at the end of my wait, that I write off love as a venom without cure;
But I see that even now, when the Great Lakes are frozen solid, you hold and
indeed savour love, like hot peas soup brimming in a silver spoon.