10.28.2006

Timing


I

We are going to write a poem, you and I.
We will make sure it follows all the rules.
Side by side at your desk, we can make the
Words fit just right. Our punctuation will be
Faultless, and we will have the most brilliant
Rhyme scheme because we are reasonably
Intelligent people. Together, we will synthesize
An assonance that concludes the searches of the
Oldest scholars. Together we will engineer the
Pattern that can give speech to the dumb. We
Will do this because we know how. We can
Accomplish this because we can follow all the rules.


II

Glance.
Mary is watching

the computer screen.
We're sitting
side by side in her room,
and I'm

nervous

for so many reasons.
It's my poem
that she's critiquing.

Glance again.

The twin hummingbirds dart
fluorescent blue,
reflecting light.
Watching them,

I hope
simultaneously
that she will and will not turn to me,
twin sapphires incandescent
within perfect porcelain,

to scan my face
for inconsistencies.

I pray
that I can get
my timing right.

Glance.

Tense with thought,
her jaw is set
like a skydiver's
before the drop.

Eventually
she turns from the monitor
to reflect its glow onto my face, and

I wonder
if this is allowed
to be called love,

thinking of nothing but
the spaces
between her eyelashes,
seeing nothing but the strings
of her blouse
hanging
like the declaration unmade,
like a child's shoelace.

I wonder
if this is Hell
and she is holy.

I'll wait
to be sure.


III

We are writing a poem, you and I, but it's
Harder than we first thought. It's not that we
Haven't followed all the rules. We have meter;
A simple pattern to organize our thoughts and
Guide the reader. We have alliteration, like all
The best poems must. We've used everything
Our teachers ever told us we should have. Still,
Something's missing, I wonder if it's a question
Of timing, of intimating what pictures never could.

Maybe, if we can't get it now, we never will.