This Thing

This Thing

This Thing

How to begin to define it
this momentous thing

between us? A monosyllable
rhyming with “dove”

and “above”, so dull
and dubiously religious

compared to the spirit
of our connection. Not that

talk of the numinous
wouldn’t apply. Your penchant

for the Tarot, mine
for the Sufis, altogether

I suspect more transcendental
than the babble

of necessity and hope
desired by our former selves. Now

I can’t say if “love” ever
belonged to my former lexicon

of merely being
with someone. A confession?

That wouldn’t become
my professed agnosticism; but

fate always the star
of your astrological ciphers

and my horoscope
no doubt a serendipity

in the house of your heart. Mine,
(forgive the war metaphors)

a fortress reigned by
the tyrant of solipsism until

your ram battered the gates
and your vanguard scaled

the ramparts. Now the untied
captives laze on the fields

of your victory. The tyrant
a cross between theologian

and troubadour, no longer a threat
to my peasants. But what

have you gained
from this conquest? Do I

make you happy? What do you call
this earth-shaking thing

between us? I suspect
your images altogether sharper

than my medievalist detours, say
animals—am I

salamander to your unicorn
or you a yellow crane

perched on my tortoise? Or
fairytale: you see

yourself as a compassionate
Little Red Riding Hood

to my repentant wolf? Not
very likely. I’ve never really

queried eating you; but
you must’ve glanced

the dangers of sharing life
with a confused and brooding

loner. A person of your insight
doesn’t mess around

in Blue Beard’s chamber.
And I’m frankly just

a diffused dragon. So do we
call this thing

domestication? What about
the euphoria of escaping

our house together
and boarding planes? Am I

your accomplice
or live cargo? Does it sound

like complaint? It’s in fact
a celebration of the ecstatic

thing between us. I ask you
to comment. You say:

“It’s a magical
ever-changing intertwining

of two lives on levels
mundane and divine.”