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My friend and I are in
love with the same woman.

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He says, her kisses
open wounds in me

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through which you can see all
the way to the smoke rising

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from those ancient altars,
streaming with the wine, milk,

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and fresh blood of our
earliest rites and ceremonies.

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Sacred love has
savage roots, he says.

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Is that the woman I meet
each night, I wonder.

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He says, I'm an
illuminated book written

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in a language I don't
know and full of images

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difficult to interpret.

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In the light of her reading, her
eyes waking each letter of me,

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her fingers running along
each sentence of me,

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her voice sounding each phrase,
her breath touching each pause

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in me, the pictures
move, and every syllable

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burns bright,
ringing to disclose

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the grief-stricken
paths of wisdom.

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All lovers begin in hell and
end in knowledge, he says.

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Is that true for
me, I ask myself.

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I wish I could
play an instrument.

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I'd write a song about her.

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I wish I could sing.

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I'd sing about her.

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I wish I could write a poem.

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Every line would be about her.

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Instead, I listen
to my friend speak

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about this woman
we both love, and I

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think about all the ways
she is unlike anything he

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says about her and
everything else in the world.

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