I asked my son, “why are you crying.”
“I am finally in love,” he said.
And I knew it hurt, that forever
awkward landing, just to rise,
      so as to breathlessly fall eternal.

No longer in love with me, for
that must pass, but with the body
of his future, novel and bright
as the reveille of himself.

I am not strong. I turned away
as my limbs quaked, poisoned by that
curious concoction all parents
must drink if we wish to free

the future from our briny net.
One part pride, one part fear,
finished with a spit of envy,
guzzled down with rueful surrender,
      no longer the center of the fire’s dance.

So honestly, my true intention
is to live this life better than you.
        Petty, I know.

But just so tempting to declare
that I can come to my end,
somehow elevated with an esteem
that will grab the gods' attention.

Perhaps, they will applaud,
and grant me a life saving boon.
In my excellence, I will request
an honorarium for my sacred duty-

To leave this world with all of you
brimming in the knowledge
that it does not mater how well
you live your life.

Because you'll know that the love-
my love, your love, the forever love-
is more compliant than desire,
and more abundant than the wind.

Step outside, for you might leap
into eternity from there.
Gaze to the right
and be comforted and fearless.

Know that I am beyond,
and armed with my gratitude
for our imperfect loving, I have been able
to discipline doomsday.

          It looks away so sheepishly now,
          so aware of its inability to build
          an alter higher than the tears shed,
          the cries of joy,
                    on the day you were born.

Same as if a wave
tries to divorce itself
from the sea,

so you will never
make yourself happy,
even though our purpose

is to be happy,
just as the sea
will roll and break forever.

The journey to no where
will abandon us,
so let's traverse life
with a strong rope
of good excuses,
and remain alert
for a melee of ******
forgiveness happening
          on the side of the road.

Why do we spit when it is  already raining?

          It is a reasonable question
          between you and I
          when we call things finished
          or perhaps just interrupted.

          Hey, it is just an accident
          during which we start to believe
          that love is greater
          than the collapse of time.

How wise are we to be fools chasing love?

          We have a brilliant future
          ahead of us during which
          we will  invent
          magnificent new ways to suffer.

          Wade far enough out into our sorrows
          and we will see something beautiful,
          like love between two bodies
          or death disguised as eternity.

No allusions to talking sticks,
or metaphors of a chrome plated god,
because it's only life.

I can make use of a woman
with supple ankles stepping off the bus
kindling my hips and heart,

(but you've heard that one before,)
and, it's only life, so this might
just read like an instruction manual,

or both halves of a confessional,
but there will be no use made
of dancing dogs or moonlight

in battle, because it's only life,
and I have never really known
what it is I want to say to you.

It’s something like, "I love you,"
but asides from just being
very frightening to say,

I also think, it's more.
If it's only life, it's also
only death,

and what can be said that penetrates
death. What can be said
that won't collapse like engine failure

in the span between you and I,
if I try to say an "I love you"
that's truer than death.

I hope death is a woman - a big, beautiful, black woman, who will instruct me on the ways of the crossing-

            “Before the union,
              is the mingling
              of your suffering and joy
              shuffled with your then and now
              most true in the ways you were
              never right or wrong,
              only anxious in your loving
              better.”

And I will defend myself with my wisest words –

“Amazing!
  Though I’d never practiced,
  I knew to kiss you right there.”

and-

“There is so much terror in this life,
  prayer is bound to be effective.”

and-

“Don’t make it small. Make it round
  and sweet, like all good fruits.”

and-

“Even the most sincere privilege,
  a poet’s fame,
          will not save me from death.”


I believe she will smile, touch her finger to my forehead, and permit my disappearance, into that wet, wet love that holds your longing as you undress.