By Terry Wright
It’s not felt with the body.
Unless it’s the heart pumping blood
more furiously than usual,
a prickling of sweat on the palms,
the sensation of shame
crawling up between the shoulder blades,
an itch impossible to scratch.
No, it’s not felt with the body.
The life of the mind meant to us
wood paneling, red wine. A green-shingled house
crawling with fat pink roses
in the Berkeley hills.
No more or less than that.
No more, and no less; that can describe us perfectly.
I spent years hoping this wouldn’t be the only story I would tell.
If your fascination is absent, I make it up
with my own preoccupation.
In love with love, something in my hands
won’t let me stop writing love letters to you.
