Imperfect Love Poem
       

The day takes wing like the blackbirds
that cross my window, sudden, awkward:
a sharp infusion of clarity. Like my dream's
recurring errant shade, I enter a world I didn't
understand and comprehend it: know, that is,
how little I understand it. I dream my sister's
visit: she comes into the house silently while
you and I are talking about her, asks whether
something bad has happened again this year.
On the last anniversary of her husband's death,
you told me that if I outlive you, I should say
nice things at your funeral and then go on
with my life. Now the world is gray-white,
a muted white, paled gray: indistinguishable,
like our sorrows for others and for self. My
coffee's almost right. If my head didn't hurt,
I'd be imperfectly happy. I am imperfectly
happy, with my head, my cough, my aching
heel, flashes of worry about your health, my
brother, the ominous noise in the basement,
my sister. My coffee has an undertone, an
edge of lees. Being with you all day, laughing
with you, making love, I imagine and utterly
fail to imagine being without you. In my dream
it's my sister I ask if I'm still desirable. What
we want from each other is skewed, inappropriate
— or do we always desire what no one can give?
'there's a rim of ice on the porch. If I were living
alone, would recording this stream of words
each day keep me from the incessant talking
lonely people do when there's someone to listen,
or would I be just like them, worse? I don't
want to find out. But I don't want to be "taken,"
either, as the sweet old ladies say. Icy pink
glints in the clouds now. Morning's almost
gone, it's late. After the alarm, we lie in
bed, lingering, chatting, two old sailors
in a single hammock, sheltered, alee. For
these moments, I'm perfectly happy.

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Copyright © 2011 Sandra Kohler All rights reserved
from Improbable Music
Word Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission