Ballast

A poem about the weight of long-term love.

We could do that, I say, knowing full well we never will.
Maybe that’s just a Britishism—
a gentle way of letting someone down,
a door left slightly ajar,
pretending the future is still a room
we might walk into together.

We could do that, I say again,
as you wake from your winter slumber,
belly wrapped in blanket and thicket,
your body sharpened by extremes:
one day all motion and discipline,
the next ballast, a stone refusing
to lift itself from the bed.

We could do that, go outside,
stand in the moonlight,
meditate under the blood-red moon,
that heavy ellipsis in the sky
pressing down upon us.
We could go out and lie there,
hand in hand, gentle for once.

We could.

Later I bring you orchids and lilies.
Their rusted anthers brush my shirt,
smudging pollen, evidence
of my clumsy devotion.
You are furious—not at the flowers,
but at the way love always
arrives slightly bruised, slightly bent,
and leaves its echoes behind.

Still, I say it anyway—
that we could grow old together
inside something tender.

We could do that.

---