I once had a crush on the word
how it moved in and out of my life
its slippery cil rounding corners
and rubbing up against the hard con
how I misused the word
on more than one occasion
meaning almost clear
at once here and never here
there but never somewhere.
And though the past may sound
a lot like history
it was about love, and it’s always
about love, this forever
balance of stretching and returning
this push and pull
like some sad scavenger hunt or
tug of war for the soldier
never quite back and the object
of his affection
like a word broken at the syllable
the need for more space
her always here, her never left.
This is how it goes.
Time ends up making a postcard
from him to her
and two rooms on either side
of the world
his boots heavy with memory’s lead
in one bed, her need
to reconcile in the other, and me
still in love
with a word, with an idea
all of us
are so desperately
trying to understand.
This poem has appeared in the online version of ARARAT.