It’s so simple, the art
of romanticizing bruises,
excavating the wounds
left behind by lovers reckless,
far easier to describe the
mammalian thrill of the
concept of red when my
bedroom floor still litters
with bandages desperately
pressed against my body
and discarded in vain –
Fireworks in the dilating
pupils, some man learned
in the forbidden magic of
staring into the soul while he
lies tells me he loves me,
symphonies for the sidewalk
shootout, what is love, after all,
if not clinging through the
hurricane?
Far harder, admittedly,
to rile a poem’s bloodstream
with the details of love
steady, sustainable –
you meet me at the
airport, just past where
you’re supposed to, and
we both break into a
jog; I call you on a
Saturday, on speaker
while we both pretend
to be in the same room;
I wipe three dots
of your pee from
the toiletseat and don’t
tell you so; in the
morning, you detail
your dreams while they
evaporate; you pretend
not to remember I said
we’d cook tonight,
and would a reader stay?
Is this a poem anyone
wants, flesh cradled in lieu of
breaking? When the stanzas
don’t thrill, instead becoming
a gentle landing?
I love you as something
mundane and lovely, spoken
despite all our knowing, the
squeeze of a hand, the secret
grin at a small snore, handing
you the last sip of coffee
even though I wanted it.
michael king 