I’ve been focusing on theatre and haven’t really written a poem in quite some time. The following has been sitting in my notebook for nearly a year. Every so often I cross out a word and replace it with another. Sometimes the meaning grows, other times it fizzles away.
It’s a love poem, I think. It’s about how I find something as simple as his scent to be the most intoxicating thing about him. Eyes shut I could tell if he enters a room just by the way my body reacts to his space, his smell. So today being Valentine’s day I thought I should put an end to umming and aahing and just type it. Because, you know, typing a poem is finishing it. Hitting publish on a blog post is saying, “I’m done.”
So Ben. I’m done. And this one’s for you…
My husband’s ears smell erotic,
his fragrance dances around me.
No longer the awkward staccato
of a school disco.
Now our pheromones collide,
they have slowed to
the languishing legato
of a couple
in their own intimacy.
It’s not enough. Poems, like love stories never really finish. They continue long into the night, away from the reader/audience to be enjoyed privately by the (profound) effect they may have on us.
Happy Valentine’s Day.