In a field of statues, you
and I are laughing at the pigeons, breaking open
a warm, ripe pomegranate which you tell me
is the fruit of good intentions. We eat to fill
but the seeds are small, and we are starving.
It’s spring and everything is flowering.
We talk about this, and about the end of courses,
a wedding, a distant dream of Europe.
All this hope, our very best
smiles fighting off this darkness coming up in me.
I can barely see its face, don’t know its name, yet
I welcome it as a friend, become enraptured
in the idea of blackness, as in love.
I am in love
and nothing here makes sense. We drink another glass of wine
and toast the skyline, disbelieving.
c. Melissa K. Dalman, 1994
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