The End of Love

for Steve Huntington

I’ve studied it—
the turning away of the eyes
at the unpleasantness of life,
wrinkles and blood, pain and thirst,
sound bytes to cover dishonesty with honey,
the denial of inevitable yearning for skin touching skin,
the making peace on the last days that come too soon,
where goodbye is too much
and see you soon is not enough
to stop the heart from breaking.

Once you told me,
in a moment of confession,
about a small truth that had come to you.
You apologized for being too forward
with the lack of God between us
by placing three small words
in my hands.

“We all die.” you said.

Just like that.
And then,
you shook your fist
at the heavens,
your voice trembling
at the boldness
of your anger.

“And another thing,” you said,
“I want this last year back.”

Just like that.

Just like that.

I watched you in that lesson
like my life depended on laughter and kindness,
on outrage and justice,
on black and white—
on unconditional love.

Just like that,
you opened the door
I am always afraid to walk through—
opened it and walked right toward
the end of love—
just like it was any other day,
like all the other days before this one
with a See ya. or Bye.
except this time you really meant it.

Now when I go back to my desk,
my pen in hand,
my heart filled with everything,
I can only write the endings
that leave us lonely, but filled
with grateful and abundant feasts of love.

It is here, at this table,
where I will meet you again,
share a story
about something that matters,
look each other in the eyes without regret,
hearts satisfied at knowing
the embrace of this friendship.

Delivered by Angels

Before the birds of morning
you woke me from my sleep—
entered through the window
of a dream—
climbed through the gnarled forest of my hair
and over the desert of my untouched skin
to the place that glows heavy with blood
and the seeds of children
and other men once grew briefly
and sometimes flowered.

At the sill you gripped the edge of the dream,
announced yourself the new keeper of the garden,
advised this mistress
we must plant now
before it is too late to harvest
the abundant bounty
that comes after the moon
and before the heat of full summer.

You pulled yourself with strong arms
into the embrace of my body,
curled yourself perfectly between my legs
and whispered the secret you’d finally found
of balancing black and white,
night and broad daylight,
hot and the icy cold of alone,
fire and water,
deafening silence and the mercy of birdsong.

I drifted along on the incoming tide that is you--
wild roses and sea grasses reminding me
it is impossible to ignore destiny or truth
when he comes before dawn in a dream,
lighting the way when everything else
is so dark.

The gown of my sleeping self is wet
with the dew of your sweetest kisses.
In this place of kindness I smile for the first time in days
and count myself lucky with each minute you follow me
toward the starry promise of another hour of dreaming.

I gladly recline on the cool of fresh sheets
where night air delivers comfort
through the new green of maple
and purple wind chimes of twilight.
I exhale and surrender to the ways
angels deliver their most holy gifts.