I have never written a love poem.
Oh, I have written poems. Lots of those. Most of them had love in them, or lovers: people I wanted, people who wanted me, people I wanted to go away or come closer. But even in the thrones of it, even when everything was fine, I wrote poems about love ending. In my poems, I sent it away or watched it go. I wanted it to go. I thought it would end, and it did.
I was waiting.
How has your work changed, my friend asked, yesterday morning at the parade, since falling?
Oh falling.
Oh, oh, oh. I write. I write in celebration. Oh, they have problems, lots of them, words in the wrong place, wrong words. I write lots of oh’s now.
I can’t seem to end these poems. I can’t seem to end. I can go on forever. I am stammering, blushing, stupid, and pink. I feel limitless. I believe anything is possible—-not just possible, plausible (there is no just as you said). I can do anything, not the least of which is a city. That is only the beginning. That is only the start. Flying comes next. Then an ice cream factory. Then a Series. Then a million and one poems.
In the meantime, I will continue writing love poems. One at a time.
