There is no theory here
Except the theory of the oar
Who has a notion of teasing the current
There is no science here
Except the science of the boat
Who is motionless and yet is moving
There is an equation
Discarded here
In fragments on the surface of the water
That explains the ratio of sunlight to sunburn
At the nape of the neck
Sometimes the occasion for celebration
Is the absence of mathematics.
A low stone wall frames the patio.
In Spring,
We fill a dozen pots with flowers
To set upon the wall.
Inpatiens, Dahlias, Begonias surrounding the summer.
Once filled,
The heavy clay pots refuse to turn –
Refuse to give the northern petals face time with the sun.
This year,
We bought three light pots.
They sit by the side of their sturdier neighbors.
The bees –
Though I am sure they have noticed –
I have overheard the discussion –
Still visit.
The dahlias –
Not defiant –
Perhaps indifferent –
Still bloom.
But no one –
Not even this gaudy butterfly who flirts with everyone –
Not even she –
Would mistake for terra-cotta,
These common plastic pots,
Painted orange.
Likewise,
No one on this beach
Would mistake for that sunlit girl,
That decades-ago girl –
No one would mistake for that girl –
Long-limbed like Diana,
This loose-skinned woman,
This thick-waisted woman,
Straw hair,
Painted gold.
But enough about poetry.
I’d rather read the letter
sufficiently enticing
to elicit the invitation
to Italy.
Perhaps you enclosed a recent photo.
Your literary skills – or so the story goes –
inspired a true proposal
of holy matrimony
until the already-wife sent you packing.
This could have been literal.
“Please pack your punctuation,”
them being the literary set.
But I’d prefer drama,
A confrontation of recriminations.
Well-worded threats.
A year before, my boyfriend’s mom escorted me out
via sharpened scissors.
How infinitely more romantic
if the poet’s spouse
swung the shears.
Did you love him for his mind?
Did he fuck you for your body?
But, hell, you ended up with a book
and a reputation.
But enough about poetry.
