Thursday, December 11, 2014 - 10:02 am
“Sickness and Health”
You wish you could cure me. We float together in your bed, on a postage-stamp sea frozen into wood -- your charming, warped floor -- that shakes and heaves while you sleep, arm wrapped around my waist as though you could anchor me, as though love meant simply holding on, as though insomnia were simply wrong when it whispers that we're drifting apart. Car horn. Hours till dawn. Our bodies will be here when it comes, glowing like communion wafers, touching symbols that aren't ours of the crumbling body -- this we share -- of God. I need to say this now when your arm around my waist is the only answer you can make to the heaving sea of boards which, if you'd whisper, if you were awake, neither shake, nor heave, nor carry me away because beyond our love there is no sea. I wish it were true. That the sea were wood, the wood still tree. That your love could cure me.