Totem

I don't always understand things. But first off, love

is an eternity. Or it kinda takes an eternity to figure it out.

Where it goes at night. Where it sleeps. What

family is waiting for it. Who, in it's right mind?

Entirety is waiting for it to return. What the

swollen mail man might bring? What tunes

Ellen decides to dance to? What blackened 

pull over Miles might wear on an album cover

from his heaven? What English professor

slips his hand into the sophomore's blouse?

The little girl hands me a rose at the repass

for her great aunt who overdosed. "I gift this to you"

her upturned palm says. It is tireless, this

luminous fracture; this totem reminder

of its kinship. This you can carry home in your 

own hot car. We are made to sentimentalize 

our own space and mayhem. Love is more careful

than the body of another's corruption. That's why

after explosions we gather the body parts

like gathering our thoughts for a wood poem. Who is this

love goddess anyways? Where is she? What toga wraps

around her burdens while we sleep? At night

I dreamt of my own listening; the way translucence smells

like the ends of burned living; her shrieked way of laying on hands. 

Author's Note

for judy