It would be easier, of course,
to love you if I could do it
alone in a sequestered room
with my favorite music (today
it’s the oud), feeling not at all hungry,
having gone for a walk in the sunshine
and preparing for a nap before
I sit on a garnet and gold cushion
to meditate more on how much
I love you. In actuality, I love you
while I am weeding and my back
is tired and the mosquitoes’ constant
whine fills my ears and they leave their
red legacies on my skin. And I love
you when the bike tire pops again
on the puncture vine. And I love you
when the phone rings too much and
when it does not ring at all and the rooms
are much too quiet. And I love you because.
I love you despite. I love you ferociously.
I love you in the quiet of the morning
when I am not at all awake nor wanting
to be but I hear the baby crying. I love
you when it rains and I remember what
it is to fall effortlessly. I love you when
I hear your voice and it is honey. It is balm.
it is ripe cherry juice. It is yours. I love you
when it aches to love you, when I walk through
a valley of thorns. I love you when our silence
cuts inside my gut like twenty thousand blades.
I love you when we are unripened fruit.
I love you when I break open because it’s too much
to hold—all this love married to all this sorrow.
It’s so hand in hand. And I love you. There is
no logic in it. No hint of intelligence. It just is,
this love, this expanding love, this constant
discovery. And I sense there is more, there
is always more, there is more, and oh my,
we will never know the end of this,
and inside I can feel as the rib cage
spreads and I become increasingly,
expansive, broken and oh! spacious.