do you, timothy -

at table forty one
in delfina’s,
you can see things both ways.

into the place people were clustered,
waiting,
for the permission to enter,
to sit,
to partake.

then, into the steam of creation,
where farm-raised met man-made,
and the soup that stirred us so deeply
was crushed from
spiny shells
from something sap-like,
verdigris.

it was the day after,
and the night before,
and we did not know the morning wait would be so long.

that the rain would come down so soft,
and the wind would be so hard,
and that we would cluster with the others,
and still smile.

that children would bring roses,
and strangers bear cake,
and one lone girl would bring dry socks
“so you don’t get cold feet”.

that the countdown to the front door
would become so epic,
that being among the three thousand
would be nothing
compared to the first time we spoke those words.

history writes itself unexpectedly into our lives.

I did not get on one knee to him.

I looked into his eyes above the sea,
the golden gate behind him,
and begged him to understand.

forgive.

to love me
enough.

to find his way past the expected,
and my clumsy passion,
and the way
we would want things to be.

to stand with me for seven hours
waiting.
to say those few words before a stranger.
to hold a piece of paper
that said
for the first time in a country’s history,
as he had told me so often in our history,
yes.

and the nettle soup at delfina’s
was as tender
as his answer,

as only the unplanned in life
can be.



GLS
5/25/04