On Companionship

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.

About thepoetsglass

Professor, poet, philosophical dilettante, plus some other impressively heady alliterations. Instructional designer and copywriter. Cognitive neuroscientist by night. Self-diagnosed coffee addict, sometime dancer, brooding bibliophile, and an always salty sailor.
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