We walked two miles through July wheat fields
that undulated  beneath Sunday morning sun
like golden swans.

The pond was glacier stone smooth, and canopied
by silver maple and swamp oak; willows lined
the  banks.

Miriam unfastened her hair, tossed her blouse
over my shoulders,  kicked her cut-offs
toward the boat’s bow,

and dove.

Dying for someone is easy,
everyday a soldier dies for a stranger.
Living for someone hurts,
for her I shall live.

For her I will let them poison me,
I will let them poke and ****,
and scan and search.
For her I shall live.

Dying would be so easy,
step away from the wards,
from the beeping machines,
from the sympathetic eyes,
and just be.

For her I do more than being,
for her I shall live.

As the pain recedes;
       The marks remain,
       fresh on my flesh,
       forever.