Unregretful Love Poem

by Jess Rowan

This is the third time
I have loved you to the amount of
devious. I read very shortly ago that
we are fearing of numbers. We are
fearing of odds. We are fearing to stop
joking about it. We are fearing to have
more to have less. We are eager and
twitchy. We enter the water with the
intention of fog. We have busy hands in
the evenings. We separate wanting and
loving with an easy sieve. We want to
feel revolutionary and quiet. We want
what we want to be boring. To be older
than books. We say "biblical" to encompass
ugly things. We say "spiritual" with a
salt tongue. I read that the garden us
would be three plants and then two. I
think the roots of flowers can get so
tangled as to form a new system
altogether. And then one.

I read fearfully and with a sugar mouth
and I imagined a home made out of all
our bodies. I imagine what we wouldn't
need. I am full with wonder. I am preparing
to starve this spirit out of me. In the
mornings I will lift my gentle hands to
let the soot out and collect your mouths.
I will say "that I love so." I will not discern what
we are not. I will not discern what we cannot.
The middle of me is not "who." Is not "I
am so." Is malleable and soft. Is greedy
for you and unapologetic. The sand
of you. The tones of you. I want
to fill my hands and then again.
To love is to be proud. To be wild and
wide. To love is to be impatient.
To risk burning. To invite it.
Love would eat our insides
with permission, with a gentleness.