POETRY

And Then They Dream of Love

“Were you not more than just a pretty face

And perfect figure”, he thought, kissing one

While clamped against the other, “this embrace

Would not be so intense.” But she was done

For now with doubts and fears. Her state of grace

Had come upon her like the rising sun.

He bathed in daybreak, loving its suddenness,

The way she shook, her look of sheer distress

That meant the opposite, and everything.

Back in the world, her limbs still trembling,

She said it all again, and this time he

Expressed himself in words as best he could –

“You must know you mean more than this to me” –

Merely to find himself misunderstood.

“You mean you don’t get lost in ecstasy

The way I do?” she said. “I want to be

All that you need of this.” He said, “You said

I only cared what you were like in bed.”

And so their bickering began again

About what you mean now and I meant then.

Only so long could they go on that way

Before they parted, worn out by their knack

For petty quarrels even when they lay

Replete. The things they said before came back

To plague them. If it matters what you say

It can’t last. Best to take another tack,

And meet for just this, very late at night.

Would she do that? No. He would. She was right.

-- Standpoint, January/February 2010