11

hands

When I was 11
I made a list of criteria
for my future husband:

{One}
He would be kind.
{That has always been first on the list.}

{Two}
He’d have a good sense of humour.
{Funny is important in my family.}

{Three}
He would have a job that could support him.
{I’m not sure who taught me that but I’m grateful.}

{Four}
He would be able to spell.
{That was the future English teacher making herself known. I no longer care about spelling at all.}

{Five}
He would be a good dancer.
{I am a round white woman with the grooving soul of a black person.}

Damien,
love of my life,
does not dance.

This morning, in Bangkok,
we were talking about poetry
and I realised that’s not true.
He does dance.
He dances through his writing.
He dances through
sharp turns of phrase
and smooth slides of description.
He dances through
the music of his words and
the quiet of his pauses.

So the Universe gave me
everything I wanted
when I was 11.

{Written on 6 July 2015}
 

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