Forgiveness is a Small Boat

 

You were

almost

a silk-worm’s favorite leaf

once.

 

Almost

delicate.

 

Slender-wristed

as the throats of those orchids

we talked about planting at Christmas.

 

The heart is a drunken architect

full of blue-prints and skyscrapers.

No one understand his designs.

 

When you danced yourself naked

through the tawdry offices of my mind,

 

upsetting the furniture,

teaching the windows to sing

like wine-glasses at Hollywood weddings

 

you were the rain.

 

All throaty laughs and light touches.

You were the leaves

dancing over concrete in autumn.

Red-eyed and wicked.

 

Waiting for someone to jump in.

 

I was a leaf-gatherer

chasing these widows of spring.

Pressing lovers into bed sheets

the way maple folds

against the spine of old journals.

 

Biting at bindings.

 

You

were

almost delicate.

 

I, more rebellious.

A bee in the window

your eyes could never quite close.

 

Somewhere in Albuquerque

a church remembers the prayers of our feet.

In that church,

a closet

 

where we almost committed a sin,

a broom that has seen you naked

 

and a flowerbed

where I buried our vows

when you weren’t looking.

 

As this earth

is my witness

 

you were the rain.

 

I have stood naked inside of you.

 

Surprised at your violence.