The entire world
wants me to think I'm insane
tries to tell me
today is Thursday
That can't be true, I know it
down in the slinky marrow
of my ancestor's bones
in the way the day hangs
loose-fitting like a cloak
like a Friday cape
across my shoulders
tickling my ankles
Also, I know that today
must be Friday, because I love you
and I only love you on Fridays
Thursdays I love music
or art, or sometimes food
Mondays that dog with the curly hair
or the memory of games
played with my sister at age seven
So you see, it can't be Thursday
for I love you, I am sure I do;
I know it in the marrow
coiled asp-like in my bones
Such a deviation would be
impossible and we all know
impossibilities -and dragons-
are reserved for Sundays
Anyway, days do not care a whit
about foolish probabilities
they know that they exist
sense that it is their turn to be today
Hard to slice, cleave, septisect
a circle equally, hard to
break the hebdomad, harder still
if you take more than your share
Leaving none for dance, for cats
cartoon shows and drawing
for zoos and museums
traveling and my black ruffled skirt
And I love you today.
Under a weakening sunset, with
the week-end moon up between clouds
hide-and-seeking its way
into freedom from the urban yoke
So take your one-seventh
and be glad of what you get
Keep Thursday for, to, yourself
...the newspapers too?
The six-o-clock news?
Your three-year-old cousin
Everyone we know?
...Oh dear, this is terrible
the days have switched themselves
And if I give you Thursday too
where will I put cold milk?
Or was it daydreaming or apples
or painting with ink
I've lost my love-schedule
but I love you, so it must
be today, or tomorrow
even yesterday will suffice if
it can be Friday in this bed
in this quiet kingdom of sleep
gently woken by Friday's sun
I have Friday feet on my legs
running to meet you at the door
wrap my Friday fingers in yours
you love me every day (you say)
I suppose I can manage two
~~~~~~~~AEW~~~~~~~~
There, I've written a non-explicit, non-bitter love poem. To...no one.
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