Solid, practical, and an excellent specimen if eugenics were to be considered–this was the criteria of a potential partner, according to the wisdom of my grandfather, a man who had a spouse of exquisite quality, a spouse who died with her children as her only source of pride.
And where be love?
This is not to say that love cannot be solid and practical. Many times have I tried a partner who fit the eugenics checklist, whose genetic make-up would be a standard for the improvement of the human race, whose family background was more than laudable, whose skills set would make for a future CEO’s curriculum vitae. A secure choice, practical as a haircut in summer, as a poet once aptly said.
Yet here we are, slowly beginning. In the event of a nuclear holocaust, you would most probably be one of the last people anyone would choose to preserve in order to propagate a prime breed of human beings. Your credentials would never pass the scrutiny of my family’s corporate mindset and the last name you carry is one that has never rung a bell within the smaller and smaller circles of high society. Yet here I am, desiring, more afraid of being without you than the war we wage against expectation and convention, yearning to discover you, longing to be unraveled by the you who dares, dreams, defies.
I hope we never destroy each other.
Tell me about the dream where we pull the bodies out of the lake
and dress them in warm clothes again.
How it was late, and no one could sleep, the horses running
Until they forget that they are horses.
It’s not like a tree where the roots have to end somewhere,
it’s more like a song on a policeman’s radio,
how we rolled up the carpet so we could dance, and the days
were bright red, and every time we kissed there was another apple
to slice into pieces.
Look at the light through the windowpane. That means it’s noon, that means
Tell me how all this, and love too, will ruin us.
These, our bodies, possessed by light.
Tell me we’ll never get used to it.