Carl Miller poems
page 83
2007
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The problem, stated simply—
I don’t want to be celebate
for the rest of my life, but she
won’t even think about sex.
Opening the relationship
to secondary partners is
totally against her rules,
so it’s either cheat or break up.
When a spiky haired man of anime
accepts a big eyed girl’s profession of love,
that’s usually it. Their love will endure
despite any potential rival loves,
being on opposing sides of a war,
or even a science fictional mishap
making one of them twice the other’s age,
even if they seldom share a kiss.
Without lovemaking, my own heart faltered.
The crack of difference became a rift
spread wide like the Atlantic Ocean.
Before I knew it, we were here and there
on opposing sides of our own dispute.
We’ve both become older than we should be,
but the aging effects of my heart attack
are less than those of her fall down concrete steps.
With pinched nerves growing painful bubbles,
idiot doctors who either won’t treat her
or won’t stop treating her when it doesn’t work,
she’s packed in pillows watching soap operas
and mediocre Star Trek clones.
I’m supposed to devote myself to her,
no matter how boring or cranky she gets,
even if I can’t see or touch her skin.
There’s no way I can make myself look good.
I’m doing dinner and movies with someone else,
cuddling in bed, whispering in the dark,
wondering how much any love can endure.
You want me to sing to you
but my voice cracks.
You want me to dance with you
but my back hurts
and my knees are weak.
You’d better make love with me
while I still can.
When I touch your knee,
you pull up your skirt.
copyright © 2009 Carl Miller