I go to the things I love
with no thought of duty or pity
H.D., “The Flowering of the Rod”
When I put down my book and step out of the dream
into the poky kitchen, the counter stained with sauce,
to chop celery, bell peppers, mushrooms into cubes
and stir them into sliced chicken for Monday’s dinner,
I am not going to love, my love, I am going to duty.
When you rage against the computer for being slow
or not doing today what it did so quietly yesterday
or eating up your files or not saying what is wrong,
and I come to you to put my hands on your shoulders,
I am not going to love, my love, I am going to pity.
I go to a river, its waters secretly continuous, out of love,
to wet gingko leaves that renders the earth their ground,
to a glass of wine, loud dance music and men in trance.
These things I go to with no thought of duty or pity,
as when you turn in bed and wave me on with a kiss.