This Goodbye Is So Conflicting I Am Heartbroken I Am Torn It Is So Difficult To Think Of You Leaving

"I will never have a husband" I tell her, as the sun Peeks through the branches, Turning the dark blue sky Brand new shades of purple and orange.

I think she wants to be my man, To care for me the way a Man cares for a woman In a place when only this form Of devotion is allowed.

Sometimes, on these nights She curls her love into my fingers, After sneaking through the maples And oaks, careful to avoid the Streets with newly added lamps.

"You wouldn't be my wife?" She asks, in that sorrowful way She always asks, because she does Ask, with words or with her eyebrows Tilting upwards and sideways.

"I could never be a wife." And neither could she, not Even with me, not here in my Room or in this house or In anyone's home, not with anyone.

Sometimes she wakes me Dressed in her neighbor's shirt And pants, stolen from the line, Her long brown hair tucked into Her brother's formal hat.

In the day she is the embodiment Of elegance, her long flowing Hair pinned with decorations, Long expensive gowns, delicately gloved Hands that have never known labor.

Then in darkness she stands beside me Pulling her dead grandfather's Pocket watch from her borrowed Pants, giving me a wry smile Because she knows I am lying.

When she strips off her costume And gets in bed beside me I am hers, and this is our secret Marriage bed, two women making A life together in the shadows.

And I have lied, because without Ceremony or rings, without witnesses We have made vows, so when I tell her I will never have a husband, really I mean I will never have one publicly.

In the day she is hopeful as we walk Arm in arm, lazily through the orchard She whispers, "come away with me" Though I say nothing, because here We are simply the dearest of friends.

As the birds begin chirping She gathers her clothing, some To be worn and others returned, She kisses me goodbye, just until Tonight, when she will propose again.

There are Monarchs in Mexico Where kings and queens still reign Lording over salvia and milkweed In their glorious campaign

Yet nomadic in their nature In summer fleeing their domain The Monarchs journey ever north Old royal kingdoms to reclaim

The dynasty will carry backwards An intricate floating train Resting upon their paladin trees The ruling of Monarchs ever arcane

Life flows freely through cold rivers While I sit in my stagnant pond I need to be cleansed Before the algae covers me completely

We could have been green together Further down the river We could have been blue too The frogs are leaping as I stretch my legs

I slip into my skin Like slipping into A favorite sweater I am the nurturer Inside my own body A home and hearth Tranquil and secure My body is a warmth I am warm here I am so very warm

I am a wave The one you felt On the shore I crashed over you And became water Once more

You are the sand The earth That I long for When I am Out in the ocean With no oar

We are the gulls Look how far They soar Floating on the wind The whole sky To explore

Clear blue skies over the snow caps A calm, the rustle of branches Their snow thudding against the ground snow Thump, says snow, as it falls

Then a cracking sound, not unlike a tree falling A rumbling not unlike an earthquake All the birds take flight at once One black plume of fearful retreating

Shifting, sliding, crashing and rolling Snow is peaceful, it is gentle Until it breaks in the trembling Until the mountains shake it off to bury us

It is a beautiful day as the avalanche forms Serene even, as ice and snow thunders down Or it was, before the gentle thing became a terror Like all of earth which strikes awe, it does strike

If I write you You will never leave You will be with me When you are not

If I write you You will stay mine I will have you Even though I do not

This poem got away from me How cliche It's something all poets will say So am I a poet at all? If I'm just letting the words fall Where they may?

(I wouldn't describe myself that way)

I watch the spider Weaving fresh webbing Because spiders don't Have five day forecasts This spider doesn't know How soon it will rain That all its hard work Will have been in vain

The wolf spider Accepts the advances Of her strongest suitor Knowing as she snatches And savors her final meal Soon her plump body Will feed her children Dozens of her a copy

I watch the spiders My eight legged allies I see them hatch Love them living here Knowing in a year Or much sooner I will Find them delicately Crumpled on the ground Lifeless and so still

I miss loving you Where did that feeling go? I keep searching Through my pockets, Checking under the bed, Did it blow out the window?

Or did it simply Get smaller, start to fade? Like snow on a sunny day, Maybe it just started Dissolving away.