Darkness of heaven,
beyond the moon’s painting
over my pale weariness,
I rest my fading body into your night.
I lay upon you
the sheer force of will
by which I hold together
this patched, unpainted frame.
How easily I could fly apart,
abandoned by gravity,
into a thousand pieces,
just glassy shards of flesh.
Must I then
be swept away
as shattered debris
of dust and ashes?
Or might I,
from every glinting fragment,
each threatening splinter,
still glitter persistently?
(two months and twelve days after legal marriage)
Love of my life,
how redundant it felt
to make vows of marriage
having traveled
a thirty-one year road.
Did we not take vows the night we
set out on this journey:
anointed by coffee at Perkins
sanctified on a sofabed alter?
Neither of us anticipated then
that a day would come
when force of law would bind us.
But court rulings do not define the heart.
On our thirty-first anniversary of love,
I undertake this vow:
No “I do” shall supersede
our queer covenant:
to be friends and lovers first
and married second
to value spiritual growth
above conventional relationship
and create “family”
intentionally
to dance across the lines
of social respectability
and seek justice
promiscuously
to celebrate sexuality
spiritually
and sex
playfully
to risk adventure
flagrantly
and seek joy
recklessly
So that whatever life may throw in our path,
our world may be renewed
just by our traveling
together.
I never imagined—
back when, before I can remember,
I learned to “hold it”
and “go” at my own command,
or when, even in recent memory
control seemed simply natural (complex and unnatural as it was)
—that a day would come
when, with constant self reminders,
I again would need to learn to “hold it”
and wished I would go only at my own command.
It feels so unnatural (as it is)
to have to will oneself to continence.
I entertained no notion—
back when, with teenage hormones rising,
my awkwardly positioned hands covered
inconvenient evidence of unconfined libido,
or when, even in recent years,
stamina alone limited me
—that a day would come
when, with wearying desire,
I would strive to manifest that libido
and would hope for its unbidden evidence.
It seems so unnatural (and it is)
to have to train one’s body for arousal.
I failed to see—
in youth and even naïve older age
before thought-less acts
lost their second-nature;
before they demanded
constant thought
—this day,
in which divided attention
yields unpleasant consequences,
and pleasant consequences require undivided attention.
It feels weirdly natural now
to think my body through its urges.