artyartie

In the process of writing the next chapter of the story I started last year for the

longpidcc community, I found quite a few things on my harddrive. There was an incredibly jaded and depressing letter I'm so glad I never sent, and I may just forbid myself, forever, from ever using crocuses in future stories/essays/poems. But I did find this poem, and even two years later, I don't feel the urge to send it to the recycle bin.

This, too, is love
In my small brown hands, in each careful stir
In the measure of freshly-ground cumin
In one more pinch of kosher salt
In the dab of honey that clings, sticky, to my fingers
And tastes exactly how love should taste.

This is love, spicy, sweet, meaty, that I hand you on a platter,
Even if it isn’t silver. Even if it isn’t my heart.

This, too, is love
In my small brown hands upon your shoulder
In my lips upon your forehead
In the spontaneous embraces which are complete symphonies
Not merely a prelude.

This, too, is love, this is love, and I exult the paean
Not needing to shout.

This, too, is love
Not bound by blood or other
Bodily fluids
This is patient and kind but seldom has
Its own pink greeting card
And like my dead languages is rarely understood
Or is looked on as mere curiosity
So I sing in the tongue of ancients
Amo meum amiculum
And so I declare what is already known.