The world's so beautiful,
and I am so sad in it . . .
Restless I was, not so tired of love
as I was of loving, because older
now wisdom ruled my old heart
and I knew I never again would love.
All this before the special day
when I remembered meeting you a year before,
and I phoned you then–
1 asked you to dinner on Saturday night,
and you said yes without any hesitation.
I arrived at seven, knocked on your
door and handed you a teddy bear.
You introduced me to many of your several children.
Later I will ask you just how many there are . . .
I open your door to my red Volkswagen, and
I admire your legs as you slide into the seat.
At the restaurant we order steaks.
You drink some house Merlot.
We watch a fashion show while I drink water
and tell you some of the tales of my alcoholism.
Over seventeen years sober in my revelation,
I know I'll tell you everything,
but I do not recall realizing at all
that you would tell me nothing,
never knew that as you stopped
at the end of each breath you breathed
you drew in the next only to further
shape it all for your fantastic fictions.
You have me already, for I'm already
imagining what it's like to kiss you,
to hold you in my arms until all is touch.
Then I am not certain where I am anymore–
can return me from, not so
much as there was no turning back, as I
knew no other way to go
as I fell forward to a place I'd never been before.
I'm not certain I'll ever know myself again,
never see Larry,
when a chance I mistake for an act of grace
puts you in my arms and you love me.
I bring myself inside you, forget my name,
as I whisper yours in your ears.
You say, "You sound like a wonderful man.
I know I'll never have to worry about you."
Once his wife, you never again speak of Michael,
he, your mother's cousin-1 guess when I say,
"Why do you not want to talk about him?
Was he your cousin or something?"
So I tease you and tell you this-
That if your children tire of being siblings
than can opt for just being cousins.