Hester L. Furey
Not those two mojitos
that I shouldn’t have ordered
and taste still this morning.
Not the two aspirins I took at four.
Not the two hours of wracked and patchy sleep,
the never ending nausea, the tornado nightmares
where I beg the storm to spare us, not the way
you try to bind me to you with righteous anger.
In sweeter humors you claim you fear me not;
you say nothing rhymes with your name.
Nothing rhymes with sadistic paranoid,
either, and atheists have no corner on reason.
But it’s not about the charm of rhymes
or cheap and easy labels, not for me.
What you don’t see, have never seen, is my real power
and your own: I am already bound, disarmed.
Love makes it easy to forgive you, to laugh off
any sins or perceived offenses, large or small.
I think of myself as a person who prays.
Sometimes I use strange props.
Not how others see me, I know.
Not this headache, not this heartache,
not the car that screeches out of the drive
before I reach the door,
not your big heart, what I love best,
closed and hard and