Love for the Living

Love for the Living

Love for the Living

What does it mean to want to live?
Only this: to refuse to see the mouth’s anguish
as a sign to step out of an open window.
To refuse to be twenty-six and afraid of leaving
one city for another. To refuse to be a bomb
shelter for your mother’s fears. What is it like
to believe the night isn’t a cemetery
for bodies like yours? Like this: the joy at a spiral
of rainbow bunting scattered like relief
across a lit sky. The ache of pleasure when
your mother mentions your lover’s name.
The way you notice, incredulous,
when no one seems to care how you stand
in the open, kissing and holding hands.