Monday, January 17, 2011


She asked him to meet her in Sausalito so they could sit on a bench
and stare at the Golden Gate Bridge.
She didn’t want to talk she just wanted to hold his hand.
He never came.
She thinks about how only love can make a person believe in love.
She thinks about his hands and where they are now.
Out there in the world without hers in them.
She wonders if he knows what has been lost.
There is no word for yesterday in the Eskimo language.
But there were laws that governed him.
Laws she would have complied with.
He thought she didn't understand
but she knows that sometimes words aren’t necessary
and that sometimes you can touch someone more deeply
by not touching them at all.
Now even the letters are gone.
She has no record of this ever happening.
What she wouldn’t give
for a haiku valentine
an everlasting hallelujah
and a lock of his hair.
She does not dream of igloos
she dreams of the way
gravity pulls a hammer towards a nail.
She would rather be a carpenter than an Eskimo.
Broken homes can be renovated
but no one would exist without history.
It is better to build things
that can’t one day melt away.
We are what we love
after all.

1 comment:

  1. "We are what we love" Then i must be you, and life, and my children, and every poet who ever lived... and every mortal being who ever loved, laughed, cried... and, coming to the end, lay down and died:)