triumph of a heart

You must accept

You must accept that’s who he really is.
You must accept that you cannot be his
unless he can be yours. No compromise.
He is a canvas on which paint never dries;
a clay that never sets; he’s steel that bends
in a breeze; he’s a melody that when it ends
no one can whistle; he is not who
you thought. He’s not. He is a shoe
that walks away: “I will not go where you
want to go.” “Why, then, are you a shoe?”
“I’m not. I have the sole of a lover
but don’t know what love is.” “Discover
it, then.” “Will I have to go where you go?”
“Sometimes.” “Be patient with you?” “Yes.” “Then, no.”
You have to hear what he is telling you
and see what he is; how it is killing you.

(Kate Light)

Music in the Morning

When I think of the years he drank, the scars
on his chin, his thinning hair, his eye that still weeps
decades after the blow, my knees weaken with gratitude 
for whatever kept him safe, whatever stopped 
the glass from cracking and shearing something vital, 
the fist from lowering, exploding an artery, pressing
the clot of blood toward the back of his brain. 
Now, he sits calmly on the couch, reading, 
refusing to wear the glasses I bought him,
holding the open book at arm’s length from his chest.
Behind him the windows are smoky with mist
and the tile floor is pushing its night chill
up through the bare soles of his feet. I like to think
he survived in order to find me, in order
to arrive here, sober, tired from a long night 
of tongues and hands and thighs, music
on the radio, coffee— so he could look up and see me,
standing in the kitchen in his torn t-shirt,
the hem of it brushing my knees, but I know
it’s only luck that brought him here, luck
and a love that had nothing to do with me,

except that this is what we sometimes get if we live
long enough, if we are patient with our lives.

(Dorianne Laux)