Since most of my words go to describe
loves that fail, tricks who come & go,
it's no surprise I have no poems for you.
Shall I, trying to write one, say: You
are the man who stole white lilacs from
Harvard to help me find spring in a
dull season? Or that three years ago we
met in a bath house in New York City, strangers
making love in the shelter of sauna & steam?
Would it be too silly to say I like to think
we're Leonard & Virginia Woolf? Don't worry --
I'll not tell which of us is Virginia. But
if I suffer a total breakdown after trying
to write you this poem -- & if you
drop all work on your next essay to
put me together, take care of my cat, they'll
know. Meanwhile, you should know that
when I see aged couples clutching each
other walking quick as they can from
muggers & death -- I see us. & that if you
die first, someone will have to, like they
would a cat without hope or home, put me to,
as it's sometimes called, sleep; & though you
don't believe in heaven, & taught me how empty
& odd my own plan for it was, I imagine we've
already known it -- at the baths, in your
loft bed; in stolen lilacs, in each stroke you
give my cat, my cock; & though I'm agnostic
now, I never question why the archangel who
sent down the devil is called Saint Michael.
A text by Michael Bronski here.