I am okay
at writing poems about love,
but bad at actually loving.
Okay at walking through the rain
and thinking that each drop upon my skin
is like a tiny burst of love
but bad at actually loving.
Okay at basketball
and knowing the names of trees,
but bad at actually loving.
Okay at offering
advice to my friends about love,
or preparing a meal with love,
or being aware of the fact
that I am being bad at love
while I am being bad at it,
but bad at actually loving.
Okay at mythologizing and regurgitating
memories of love years later,
but bad at actually loving.
Okay at loving you
when you’ve fallen asleep in my arms
and I run my fingers through your hair
and feel your steady,
peaceful breathing
and my one job is to lie still
so as not to wake you.
Okay at loving you
in those narrow moments,
but I always wake you up
in the end by accident
by turning the pages of my book
or adjusting the pillow
or reaching over
to turn off the lamp—
and in the sphere of that silence
there is no greater crime
than disrupting your steady,
peaceful breathing. So I turn
to my attorney, who is a giant
praying mantis.
He explains the plea deal
the court of insects is offering:
one half of the rest
of whatever forever turns out to be.
Just a half, he says, nudging me.
In that moment, his expertise
is palpable. This
is a praying mantis
who has honed his knowledge and skill
through long, earnest hours of training.
He understands the legal process
and he is gazing at it calmly,
hoping I will be reasonable.
But what also
becomes terrifyingly palpable
is my realization that such expertise
can be so powerful and self-sustaining
it ceases to reflect reality.
I open my mouth
to explain myself,
but as I do my attorney
kisses me, and I am filled with green light.