I am my mother’s child, wishing I could wish away what I’m feeling,
obsessed with control and a sense of decorum.
I am my father’s child, even in an incandescent moment, worrying about
it all blowing up in my face.
I am not The Devil, in the now, in the feeling, in the scents of her hair
and the warmth and softness of her hands.
A few beers, laughter, a stolen kiss walking back to her apartment,
loud music and neon lights and death stalking the beginning of life.
Maybe we’ll make love tonight. Maybe I can sleep the night through.
Maybe she’ll stay. Maybe I’ll be at peace in her arms.
I look to the moon, and then she steals a kiss from me, laughing,
hands over her mouth. She is almost all as me. She once went to war.
The wondering if she’ll welcome me inside her apartment, the hope
and the desire is by the far the best part of the evening.
If we do make love, it will not be as sweet. And even if I go home alone,
I still will have another silver winged moth to mount on the corkboard, under glass.
The moth circles her head and she does not see it, does not now it’s moonlight glow.
The moth flitters it’s one night away, and we humans are here for but one night.
Holding hands, just letting go, come what may, wanting, hoping, that this is love.
That this is real. That she’ll stay. You can’t help but hope. Can’t help but seek a lover.
We sit on her stoop as she smokes, and I hang on her every word as we talk,
and the stars could be angels tonight, this one night, this one delirious moment.
I put my arm around her shoulders and pull her close. She lays her head against mine.
I made a castle in the sand, and it washed away. Tides go out, you make another. The tide returns.
On and on, amen.