While you’re Just doin’ weekend chores
with your boyfriend (or is it fiancé now?),
I’m gorging again on The History Channel,
trying to convince myself I might meet
someone at the gym if only I could levitate
from my sofa with the same ease and grace
Chinese Myths assigned to “flying dragons”
some Ph.D. (with A Flock of Seagulls haircut)
insists were aircraft awing naïve ancestors.
They just didn’t have a name for it.
I didn’t have a name for it either. The alien
sensation that descended that afternoon
your boyfriend—my long-time friend—
finally introduced his new beau. A hand-
shake charged like the jolt that same Ph.D.
suggests was not the lightning of Zeus
scalding humans from Mount Olympus
(perhaps for a vice like coveting?) but
a glowing beam, some otherworldly force
from some bird-thing landing from beyond.
The aliens suddenly all the men I believed
I had loved. Dwarfed now from the top
of a pyramid I couldn’t recall climbing.
Always falling short. Not enough. Not it.
Whatever it was.
I just never had a name for it. Until you
offered yours. And I was struck dumb,
a stargazing primitive willing to carve
your likeness into cavern walls, learn
your language, spend a whole lifetime
flattening the earth into a landing pad
in case you might visit again.
Reprinted courtesy of NYQ.
To learn more about Michael and his book, go here.