"I'm slowly edging you into adulthood. Or dragging you into it, whichever you prefer."
I prefer being prodded,
the way a lucky patch of seaweed
is edged out of the ocean by
a few months or years worth of waves,
until it washes up on Cape May.
That radiant sundown shore,
where you learned what it meant
to have kindness kiss your face.
Ornate as a promise written in sand,
your nose and mouth and eyes and hair
flared with the cleansing fire of summer.
When our lips first met
in the black hours of dawn,
not even the bright wash of the screen
made you any more illuminated
than you were just as the sun went down
on that beach of Cape May.
This is my way to say
that nothing built or born
will ever rob you of your royalty.
Nothing can desolate your dignity.
Your grace cannot be displaced.
You are the waking wind
that chases leaves through the courtyard
and into my bedroom window,
splashing the good light of day
across my face. Such is when I wake
lying next to you, my queen of diamonds,
my unmistakable other.
There is no need for bridges
when the rivers we cross
turn warm and calm
whenever we like it.
And when we kiss beneath
the white rapids of our
garden-punk rage,
it is the only time
I have kept my eyes open
underwater.
Now you grow older,
and some sinister, unseen force
twists you away from me,
as once we've twisted away before.
You have taught me
to keep my head, cool my tongue,
to wet and dry my cheeks raw.
I have learned as I learn every day
that time and distance avails not,
as Whitman would say,
at least when it comes to kings and queens.
We could have a reign never before seen,
conquering doubts and debts
not as two children might,
but as a man and woman should.
I have learned a thousand kindnesses
are not the same as kindness.
And that kindness rides fast
on a dying mare,
tramping through the green fields
of your good heart,
which for all its trials cannot fail.
I prefer being prodded,
the way a lucky patch of seaweed
is edged out of the ocean by
a few months or years worth of waves,
until it washes up on Cape May.
That radiant sundown shore,
where you learned what it meant
to have kindness kiss your face.
Ornate as a promise written in sand,
your nose and mouth and eyes and hair
flared with the cleansing fire of summer.
When our lips first met
in the black hours of dawn,
not even the bright wash of the screen
made you any more illuminated
than you were just as the sun went down
on that beach of Cape May.
This is my way to say
that nothing built or born
will ever rob you of your royalty.
Nothing can desolate your dignity.
Your grace cannot be displaced.
You are the waking wind
that chases leaves through the courtyard
and into my bedroom window,
splashing the good light of day
across my face. Such is when I wake
lying next to you, my queen of diamonds,
my unmistakable other.
There is no need for bridges
when the rivers we cross
turn warm and calm
whenever we like it.
And when we kiss beneath
the white rapids of our
garden-punk rage,
it is the only time
I have kept my eyes open
underwater.
Now you grow older,
and some sinister, unseen force
twists you away from me,
as once we've twisted away before.
You have taught me
to keep my head, cool my tongue,
to wet and dry my cheeks raw.
I have learned as I learn every day
that time and distance avails not,
as Whitman would say,
at least when it comes to kings and queens.
We could have a reign never before seen,
conquering doubts and debts
not as two children might,
but as a man and woman should.
I have learned a thousand kindnesses
are not the same as kindness.
And that kindness rides fast
on a dying mare,
tramping through the green fields
of your good heart,
which for all its trials cannot fail.
