Promising

At eighteen we decided to seal the deal

with a license, stifle the gossip

about living in sin, and cohabit

conventionally. I remember my dad’s

terse reaction, pause and expression . . .

which I understand better today.

He knew I’d made up my mind, but

had to say, “You know you’re promising

the rest of your life to that girl?”

 

I knew the rest of my life was now.

It still is. I guess we both believed

we could keep that promise . . .

maybe that’s what love is

because I don’t really know

what love is, but then I don’t think

I really know anything, really,

except what I think I know. And

I’m willing to let go of all of it,

every-one-thing I think I know,

except those I tell myself I love.

 

Yes, I believe we are lucky, but

I’m the first to proclaim

good luck is the result of hard work . . .

though everyone knows life isn’t

always a matter of luck or choice,

choice is all we can control . . . because

sometimes love flies out the window.

We both chose to live dawn to dusk,

this carnal dream of each other

together close to the ground

each day, our youthful lust

bound to a primitive survival-trust,

base as the behavior of wolves.

 

for Sam and Cache

October 14, 2017

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