by Bob McCranie
(11/01/00)
I'm learning about bulbs, those knotted,
fleshy jewels, how they grow there, unassuming,
lacking all expectation, or -- knowing it's better
not to want. Over the years they make
from themselves another simply by will,
or the sheer terror of being alone.
Last night we drowned God one sip at a time,
blue glass on the night stand, blue glass
rolled under the bed. You mixed something sticky
and sweet and lightly maternal.
It's twelve minutes past nine
and you're still heavy with breath, heavy
with the night, so I watch you sleep.
The crux of my arm your pillow. Your breathing
against me like faith. So this
is belonging. Sunlight streaming in,
the morning half gone, and you.
Today I had planned to work in my garden --
tulips, irises, jonquils, lilies.
They let me think I'm needed,
those self-made treasures, their solitary blooms.
Bulbs are simply a means of wintering, Joe,
of surviving the cold.
Joe, my quiet one, my sleep-soaked dream,
there is nothing in your heart that lies.
You are not alone anymore. Wake up, Joe,
it is morning, and the glads have started the bloom.
