[Newspoetry] Swedish Eyes

[DL Emerick]

On Love

I was married so long and so long ago

I forgot how to make love,
as never is nirvana a manual-guided matter,
of how bodies might relate to find ecstasy;
passion, though tensely thrilling, is not love --
a good substitute, perhaps, but not love.

Indeed, love was so long ago lost on me,
I'm not sure anymore I'd know it.

It's not love's face I've forgotten, but mine,
in facing me, of how it felt to be in love.

First, there is always uncertainty, to love:
marriage is the surest end to love we can find,
an antidote to a doubting; all love is undefining.

My first ex-wife was a philosopher.

We loved each other; we married, in college.

She took a course on the Philosophy of Love.
I wondered that there could be such a thing,
this idea of loving wisdom in some knowing of love.

She came home from class one sunny afternoon,
while I was sitting in between narrow walls,
where I was dwarfed by our rows of books,
his and hers, and some that were ours,
for we shared a few pleasures of mind,
as well as those of those young bodies then beautiful.

Her words stirred up dust motes,
the ones hanging about in the air, going nowhere;
I remember how agitated they became
when she spoke so revolutionarily:
"So, do you love me?"

It's an awkward thing,
to be caught off-guard,
by such an impossible question
asked, sincerely, doubtingly, wonderingly,
by your spouse, or anyone else.

I wanted to say,
"If you must ask, then I'm not;
otherwise, silent, I do."

But, I am an honest man,
made honest, perhaps, only by marrying her,
and, had I then any courage,
I would have said, simply, "Once."
 
Had I then any brains, or heart,
sweet meats of the body fantastic,

I would have said, "Isn't that enough?
Who could ask for anything more?
Ask me something else, like this:
'Am I happily married to you?'
I can tell you it's ok and good enough."
 
I'd have paused, then.
 
I would not say that simple "No" I said,
for that was not quite truthful, either,
and I knew it but I lied anyway.

There was no right answer to give.
I know that today.

If I could relive such a moment,
knowing my thinking today, back then,
I'd try to persuade her about love,
that it's like a random variable,
wandering here and there, freely,
sometimes almost lost in the ashes,
sometimes flaming up -- I'd say
"Love is amore amora amorphous."

I know, I know, and I know I know:
it would not have been enough,
for her mind knew all distinctions,
as distractions to what she meant,
distracted as she was by her question.

Yes, yes, there are many kinds of love;
the taxonomy of love is all encompassing,
admitting of every variation,
even of random ones,
even of perversions,
and sundry permutations,
not that I've tried them all,
nor even desire to do so:
not all ecological slots need filling.
 
And, she, my darling, then, was single minded,
in some double sense -- for she meant,
and here I have only to infer intent,
"Do you love me as your one and only,
above all others, forsaking them,
not regretting such as a sacrifice,
for the joy of having me alone?"

My equivocations were signs
of answers I did not speak --
and, yet, I would have told her:
"I am content; let it be."

Years later, a miss of mine asked,
"Are you happy now?"
I then broke my second wedding vow,
though it happened quite eerily.
When she had me, she strangely said:
"I could never love you anymore."

No questions asked.

I left in doubt of me, so far gone,
wondering if even love could find me.