and say, sit here. eat. you will love again |
the stranger who was your self. give wine. give bread. give back your heart to itself, to the stranger who has loved you all your life, whom you ignored for another, who knows you by heart. take down the love letters from the bookshelf, the photographs, the desperate notes, peel your own image from the mirror. sit. feast on your life. |
Misgivings but I know what she fears: plans warp, for good reason. “Hi, honey,” chirps Dread in-advance charisma. Listen, -William Matthews
“Perhaps you’ll tire of me,” muses
my love, although she’s like a great city
to me, or a park that finds new
ways to wear each flounce of light
and investiture of weather.
Soil doesn’t tire of rain, I think,
planes explode, topsoil gets peeled away
by floods. And worse than what we can’t
control is what we could; those drab
scuttled marriages we shed so
gratefully may auger we’re on our owns
when I come through the door; “you’re home.”
Experience is a great teacher
of the value of experience,
its claustrophobic prudence,
its gloomy name-the-disasters-
my wary one, it’s far too late
to unlove each other. Instead let’s cook
something elaborate and not
invite anyone to share it but eat it
all up very very slowly.
