“The Love of My Life,” she called him

and he thought, everyone should have a Love of My Life, to be able to write love poems to them, like this one:

Blessing The Wounds

You sent me alone to the concert hall
Where only half the notes played
Until the music discovered your face—
Your smile alive, in the smiles of my friends.

You called to say you weren’t coming
But when I turn around, there you are,
Reflected on each one of my walls and
Weaved in the silky sheets that cover my bed.

I spread you on my morning bread,
Drink your sweat to calm my thirst.
My palms rest on your skin. My fingerprints
I press, branding forever your flesh.

Thirty days I walked, my eyes shut
And in the darkness of my steps
I follow the warmth of your breath
Through the dessert to the valley beyond.

Blessing the wounds we’ve carried,
Our true love joins us in the search for home.
We learn leaving from some lovers,
Only one can teach us the way back.

A Poem and a Photograph

Chained

POEM #—I DON’T KNOW…

Pretty much the way of the title my life without you goes:

‘Not knowing where the light of the world went’ when I am

without you.

Without you,

I loose the straight line that connects me to the center of all

good I’ve discovered in forty years of walking the roads,

without you.

Without you,

I don’t have to contend with friction or images of conflict

that show up in this mirrored instant we hold to each other.

Without you, all expectations, yearnings, expressions of lust,

are orphans born into the world, meaningless thoughts

going nowhere or disappearing into the darkness outside,

without you.

Without you,

I’ve often imagined my days, getting used to the impossible

thought you bear, like the cross where a dream dies alone,

without you.

Without you,

is also you without me, the letting go of the hand, the tearing

of heart tissue, the void in the eyes I become when I am

without you

—or you without me.