On a Tuesday, I biked my way into a snapshot of a woman wearing the garb of approaching wedding. Her hands were hidden by a bouquet of flowers and I never got to see her face, just that body clothed by fabric that looked like January sky. I wanted to ask her so many questions, but instead I spoke them out loud into the wind:What are you hoping for? How necessary are rings? Do they come with a guarantee?
On a different day, I speak about love with another poet. He asks me: So, what’s going on? Are you in love?
I smile because this gives me time to approach such a question. I tell him: I’ve had some immense loves in my life and if it never happens again, I think I’ll be ok. And then I add: It’s too fucking scary to get into again.
Bike rides tend to lead me toward discovery of self and place. So do these conversations with poets and musicians.
Where are we going and how are we getting there.
I haven’t owned a car in over three years, so I’ve been getting places through the transportation of my body. It can roll and honk and brake and signal. None of my parts are borrowed, but they don’t all exactly belong to me. I’ve torn off my rear-view mirrors; no need to see what is behind me anymore. I study the cracked windshield of my soul and allow it to veer me forward.
I almost got married once, though I doubt I would have worn white. I’ve been in love 4 and a half times. There may be more ahead of me, but for now, I am working on the one who keeps trying to get away: me.