However terribly unromantic-
I am not a believer in soulmates.
Never been one for melodramatics,
preferring freedom of will over fate.

Yet, I assent to Paul's Calico Skies.
She's turned me into quite the idealist.
Perhaps angels of love who are all-wise,
watch over us just as the ballad promised.

Regardless, she has the rest of my life.
And I pray we will always know repose.
Held safe in her arms, I'll never know strife.
At peace with this wonderful life I chose.

I'll never let go of my love for her.
Of our affection, I'll always be sure.

I'll miss the trees
or, I should say,
I'll miss the dappling light hitting my cheeks
shade filtered through varying Sassafras leaves.
I'll miss the Japanese Maple in my parents' front yard
who once offered herself to my imagination—
a childhood plaything, a friend.
Not all quite so nice,
barefoot stepping on Sweet Gum's spikes
will I masochistically miss even her? the familiarity?
Certainly, the Dogwood too,
the Chistological imbued in her blood,
which runs through my hometown.
It's time I become acquainted with new birds, new stones, new trees.
A new life, syllogistically,
to find and make mine.

if Earth's crammed with heaven,
my public library may be a beatific vision
     an everlasting pillar of social good
     which transcends capital greed
     loving my neighbor
     and the neighbor I'll never know
     and the neighbors gone before me
the gay bar downtown might too be a slice of something holy
     a place of Midwestern repose
     filled with a spirit of revolutionary, radical love
     What would Jesus do?
     don't forget to tip your queens
     and don't forget to break bread with the other
my university's English department certainly seems divine
     with liberal arts professors like saints
     the academia militant
     a clear path towards edification
     maybe even a touch of proselytizing
     all in the name of something undeniably sacred
gardens, enchanted woods, and unfettered wilderness
     all God-filled in their own right,
but too the fettered, man-made spaces
     the decidedly human: empyrean

who am I?
no dramatic moment of levitation
nor sudden illumination,
I'm not like those other women
and I'm not very brave

epiphaniless: I sink and drown
I'm losing my self
who am I?
poet-*****-fool-idealist-joy-stricken-struck
sometimes I feel I'm just a girl

there are still bright moments of passion
flickering bursts of hope
where stars' edges reach down, pierce
but not myself or most myself, I'm not sure

I like stepping into the foggy extraterrestrial
but life is mostly earthbound
and I am mostly lame
merely reflecting a rare ingenuity
not mine own, but Hers

such is the power of love
her pick-me-up, now twice over
iced chai lattes with oat milk

sitting like little grannies, we knit
or crochet, quilt, embroider, etc. etc.
with pricked fingers like mini-stigmatas

and we sip, glancing up together
both eavesdropping on the actual grandmas
giggling with eyes-alone at the image of our future selves

tonight we'll walk home
she'll stare at the moon, as I stare at her
I'll save worms on the sidewalk, she'll stare at me

hearts pounding with admiration,
crabbed flesh so aching for union
that once home, we transcend earthly bounds

for such is the power of love
which transforms the lover into the beloved
and, in our case, vice-versa