Image: Ayla Maisey

A Love Poem Will Not Save The World

On the last perfect day beside the last perfect body

of water, we got infected with a persistently bad idea.

We cancel our appointment with a squalling therapist.

You are smiling, you are emptying the world

so we can be alone. But who would dare to exist,

just for that? It’s Spring, bitch, be in love.

When you were in a ditch, I was in a ditch.

They were different ditches, but there we were

waiting for one another like a phantom limb.

I’ve made the stupidly courageous act

of letting our loudmouthed scars fall in love.

The daisies beside us are closing their mouths

in anticipation of what comes next.

I recognize this is the actual end

because I finally feel alive.

I’m hawk-eyeing your hairline

as you talk about your youth in Florida.

Were you there then, too, looking out the pier

wondering if there could be someone out there

just as strange as you?

The waves have started to crest

as you speak French; the dogs cease

their yawps. I still my mind to ride your tongue.

I am terrified of wide open spaces,

all the possibilities of someone with ill intentions.

I’m fighting my thoughts of Florida again,

the nightclub, the 50 phones scuffing the floor

like downed birds. I was not there,

but I will never be the same.

Tell me again (in French) the word for pulse.

Let us rename what we have to remember.

I don’t think I will ever not be afraid again.