THE POET:
I don’t even know what’s left for me to say.
And yet it doesn’t feel as if we’ve started.
This isn’t us. Not really. It’s a play!
And soon we’ll all forget it, having parted
after such a brief and useless pantomime.
If we could only meet again, with warning.
If we could only show you, take our time
revealing ourselves… One afternoon—one morning
across a table, across a cup of coffee…
But there are so many of you—so many of us
we haven’t had a chance to truly offer.
You understand, I’m sure. Ridiculous
for me to think that we could really share
not only us, but who we are together.
By definition what we are when alone
can’t be revealed at will, shown off, or known—
even by us. So it’s not you. It’s that
not even we know what we really have.
Or had. Sometimes I thought I did. Would write it.
And when we fought, I thought we did despite it.
Caring so much for us, we each felt right
until our righteousness outweighed the good.
I mean, if you want your money back, you should.
We don’t know much better about love
than you or anyone… Well, maybe some.
A pause.THE POET:
No, maybe most. We
do know love. It’s just
I hoped to share it, sing it. Not instruct.
But what’s the point of singing if it’s love
that keeps the words from ringing in the ear?
When it’s the
word that frightens people from
the very thing I wanted you to hear?
I’m not the type to preach—ask anyone—
but I thought that maybe if you stayed a while
locked in the cage (a little friendly fun)…
And you can go on forever in denial
of if the cage is metal or your self.
I’ll save my grave polemics for one on one,
but why deny the kind of human love
that isn’t what you thought that it would… Love:—
But
I always knew I hadn’t known it yet.
So once I
did, it was my will which saw it
in such a life I wouldn’t have expected.
Then I spent—well, too long among my friends
waiting to hear if he would be rejected,
if what I felt was real or just… pretense.
I cared for him but wouldn’t race toward “we”,
protecting my self—my
self—for all its worth.
And it took longer, but we’d both agree
it’s better for our patience…
A pause. A laugh.THE POET:
Is this Earth?
Is this rant of mine the least bit relevant?
Maybe it’s not—but in case, I think I’ll finish:
I’ve spent too long uneasy with what it meant.
See, first there is the problem of being “in it.”
And that is something I can’t speak about
having loved once, and only one. But I don’t doubt
it’s possible to love as many times
as there are people—and that’s the part that gets me.
Of course not any two can be combined
peacefully with each other. But in theory…
For me, love is less some magic to be proud of
than the product of two living fully, deeply.
And that depth is something willed as much as found.
Patience and willingness to find in people
what you expect for them to see in you.
Of course it isn’t simple—but it’s easy.
If you’re open to your lover’s endless value.
And easier, too, if who you choose is pleasing.
To the eye, to the hand. To the silences you share.
To who you want to be and who they are.
Not to say it can’t be work. It can sometimes.
I’m saying it shouldn’t feel laborious.
To spend a life in forfeit and alive
with someone else
who gives as much as takes.
I’m saying that choosing who is lonely work
but that the rest is worth the countless losses…
I’m doing it again. Right? Stop the clock!
I see it in your face when I say loss.
See, some of you who’ve loved in the same way
recognize me as one who’s shared that cost
while others pity what he takes away.
And friends will too that too, meaning their best.
They’ll try to talk you down from that sweet ledge
unless they too have loved… Let’s make a pledge:
I will not let somebody who isn’t me
Decide what kind of love I want or need.Say it with me now.
Silence from the audience as he begins the pledge again.THE POET:
The audience begins the pledge with him
CONSEQUENCE:
No they don’t.
THE POET
begins the pledge again, more pleadingly. His voice fades into a long silence.THE POET:
Well, I can’t make you. And I won’t even try.
A little laughter from the audience and then an awkward silence.THE POET:
It’s not my place to turn you into sheep.
I’m sorry if I’ve offended you… But why
wouldn’t you want a love that values depth?
A pause.THE POET:
It’s not my job to sell you on my choices.
Just to illustrate—no. To shape them with our voices.
A pause.THE POET:
And even that seems false now as I say it.
I never meant to put us on display.
So you can approve or be moved to not stay shut.
I simply wanted to fix our world some way—
Fix, like
set: to music or in stone.
I hoped simply to sing it and be done.
And how I hoped the words would entertain
simply by being. As if there weren’t enough
already in your ear… If I could say
anything now to redeem myself, or our love…
But your hearts are gummed with sugar as it is.
Plus who wants to hear of the boy who won his wife?
A tragedy is sweeter on the lips:
better to step from grief back to your life
than witness such a fine and rare—or is it?
I go on as if I know what yours is like
when I’ve loved once and briefly, claiming it isn’t
work, isn’t hard. But what do I know? Love…?
THE POET
breaks down into sobs.THE POET:
(
Through tears.) But what do I know? It doesn’t even rhyme.
He sniffles, collecting himself. A sigh.THE POET:
I’m sorry for taking up so much of your time.
Labels: sonnets
