I’ve kissed her more times than snow
has fallen, thought her more beautiful
than the greatest masters’ masterpieces
have always wanted to be–seen: what we
like to believe Helen was worthy of, but she is.
I’ve seen her stretch more perfectly
than the autumn day is cool and warm;
she tries to teach me how she bends gravity,
but I never listen. I’ve loved her twice in one
lifetime and folded that love in my mind,
the furnace of in-formative memory–
hammered it out, and made a sharper, cleaner,
more refined blade to cut my heart on.
Once, I read a whole population
of sonnets about a man who loved another man
like I love my Cordelia. It was pure, deep, honest.
His ghost haunts me like a mad lover–a poet–would:
in songs and romantic dramas. He and his beloved,
I imagine, their bodies probably danced
various choreographies, like she and I often do.
She taught me to trust; that is enough. I’m lucky
she needed someone to find her. Just then,
I needed a strong soul to save me from needing
to be saved; she plays that part too well.
I’ve always needed someone alive enough
I could learn to live with me too. She let’s me
think it’s all me. She is the artist in the house,
and I study her with all the unrefinement of my species,
but she forgives often and let’s me kiss her face
while she shows the shadows how to be dense.