A little while ago I promised to dig up some of my old poems and let them escape the confines of my notebooks. Here, in honour of St. Valentine’s Day, is one recalling a date from over a decade ago, when my husband and I were just dating. Enjoy!
Sometimes I wonder if
my guardian angel gets tired…
Does she weary of my insistence
of consistently wearing myself out?
The fact that she, too,
gets dragged about by my passions–
late night bus rides and cabs–
holding my hand
and watching my day-weary face,
hours passing like years.
And what does she think
as she broods in her
milky moonlit hammock,
hanging by my window
like a spider
Does she hear my cry–
torn about by sleepless dreams–
or do her angel thoughts
fade me out?
Does she spend the time I’m sleeping
sewing the names of people I love
into her gown with starlit thread?
That she may be held aloft
buoyant with their love
remembering me as fingers remember lips.
Was she there that time at Rossini’s?
With the live jazz
and James and I gazing at each other
bouncing around in our seats like kids–
so impressed by the wonderful, throaty
wailings and croons of the black singer
we couldn’t help but dance to her voice.
Did she sit, invisible,
at the table beside us
sipping at a mug
of dream-drowsy blueberry tea…
eyes glazed with candle glow…
Or did she hover near the ceiling above us
and no drinking on the job,
for when God’s your boss
there’s no sneaking,
although there must be