FLIGHT OF LOVE

Not in the beginning                       but near the end,

it must have been

a maniacally

perfect god       that made       the heart,

that would make men,

  men        and                    women, women,

with nothing in particular                 but spare

parts:

Judge me not

for always being enameled

  in love, painted

in a relationship. Let the first ones without sex

get stoned. On Maury

one sister chastises another for naming her children

after cars

she’ll never own. On telenovelas dark

skinned maids make the sign of the cross

after buttoning their blouses.

We double-check our doors

are locked in the city of Love. El Diablo

was once called “On-Hell.”

My hat wears a haloed A.

Her velour butt is struck

by Cupid’s sequined arrow.

We are angels in our way.

 What is love but a tongue

taught to us by our grandmothers,

 brought to us from their shores.

No matter how many times I put

sexuality in the corner,

 put gender in a pantsuit

and call it Diane Keaton, I cannot forget

my father’s straw sayings, his broken camel back,

his sparrow-winged shoulders straightened

 from saying nothing. I am a man,

said silence.

 I sit on a plane, shifting in my seat, wanting

 to take off my shoes,

and try to talk to the person next to me.

 I am constantly trying to talk

 to the person next to me.

Usually the person next to me is someone I love.

 Normally I won’t know them. In the Bible

 to have relations with a woman

is to know her.

A fork can’t escape

the discourse of its

drawer, as a lover

can’t escape being

the big spoon.

Let us staycation

in the attainable.

We call our sleep

routine the Kama

Sleeptra.

Every night, in

bed, she says,

You know what to

do. Seahorse. The

difference between

simile and metaphor

is liking and loving.

Sleeping, like loving,

is a solitary act

done in complicity.

You’re my doll.

I know how

to arrange you.

Whatever it takes.

What yo-yos we are,

lovers of intimate distance

swung together by

  twine    and time,

near the same      flame. The door that opened

Agathon

next to Socrates

made     Plato fondle his pen

to tell us that

it was what god

intended,

 independent

of parts,        that we lay upon

each other.