Untitled #12

     The holidays were over,
and she was staying with her family out west. 
He hadn't heard her voice in months,   Continue reading 

Untitled #11

Je t’aime, je t’aime, 
she was teaching him the French

with her head on the pillow next to him
and her eyes staring into him 

like incandescent emeralds,
his throat nearly paralyzed 

as he tried to repeat the words, 
then the next, ce soir et toujours,

the chemistry flooding their senses like a drug, 
and he could've laid there for a thousand days 

with his face on that pillow, 
sinking into a lock of her cheveux roux 

and je t’aime, je t’aime,

then she took his hand and kissed it, 
placed it on her bare stomach, 

and ran his fingers under her blouse
until he watched his hand rise and fall 

on her accelerating breath
as she said the next words.

Love Is Not A Bird You Can Cage

Love is not a bird you can cage,
    a horse you can break,

a fish you can hook,
    or a house pet you can neuter,

and love is not a claim,
    a routine course,

or a buried treasure—
    or a bus leaving town.


Love is not the sum
    of acceptable losses,

plausible denials
    and lines in the sand,

or the pawn in any game worth 
    winning—
   
love is not the card
    you can shuffle into your deck.


Love is not a fire you can suddenly 
    stop,
   
a river you can stop 
    and suddenly forget,

and love is not a table you can set 
    with stones. 
   
Love is not a motion 
    to suppress.

– for Maya Angelou