Lovers' Dialogue 2
“That doesn’t impress me,” you say,
on the floor, stretching toward your toes.
“You just have to be. No questions.”
I scratch my head and reflect,
recalling the doubts and the conventions.
“But, what if I really let it go?”
We took to the kitchen for our feast,
engorging ourselves, a thoughtless act.
You picked the seeds from the flesh,
a compulsion of infallible precision.
“Forget them,” you advise, sated.
I fill the sink with hot water
asking, “What will I do?”
You clap your hands together;
the boom of a thunder strike,
saying, “There’s no ‘I’ in free.”
I wash and wipe and polish,
a slave to domesticity.
So, I just have to be.
I pull a chair up to you
and observe the kinks in your face.
“Age is a number, and life a dash.”
So, am I just young and excited,
craving a psychedelic stupor?
“I hate it when you do that,” you say,
pinning me like a thumbtack to a wall.
“Don’t underestimate yourself!”
I see the blood boiling in you like a furnace.
I see your fire eyes and ash.
“There’s much I can’t say,” I whisper.
You open my diary, bloody and worn.
There are secrets and there are perplexities,
there are dreams and there are realities.
“My lips cease the fire,
but loaded bullets are my soul.
I once climbed the spire;
now the Pit’s become my whole.”