A poetry reading last night. My friend Amy’s husband presented. He read poems about torture, poems about racism, poems about his beautiful daughters and a very gorgeous viscerally romantic poem about his wife.
When I got home, I took HT’s hand and led him to our back yard. We sat on the bench and looked at the stars and I told him about my night. The temperature was perfect. A slight briskness, always welcome after hot summer days. I leaned against him, stretched my legs out on the bench, his arm around my shoulder.
“How come you never write me a poem?” I asked.
He laughed and came up with a title, which was our mutual nickname I’m not allowed to divulge, said in the tone we use with each other when we’re exasperated. We say it with hands in the air, beseechingly. Someone didn’t replace the toilet paper. We say it. Someone locked the other one out. We say it. Someone forgot to put sunscreen on the kids before sending them off to camp. Hands go in the air and we say it.
We say it, but we aren’t really mad. We say it knowing full well it could have been us, just as easily as the other, making the same mistake.
HT’s read three books in the 16 years I’ve known him. He’s not a writer. But there is poetry in his love for me. Poetry in him standing at the stove at 11PM, making Seth’s homemade ketchup, (when he has to work at 6AM) just to take the edge off the things I need to do tomorrow. Poetry in him folding laundry while he watches Sports Center.
Poetry in his ability to remind me Who I Am when I forget.
I’m not going to lie. And I probably “shouldn’t tell,” but we did some kissing on the bench in our back yard under the stars last night.
His steady love. His devotion, all the poem I need.