This poem deals with fertility as well.
And I guess this is one of the reasons I wanted to read it
right after that poem.
And I wrote it to a poet friend of mine,
and I was a little worried that he wasn't going
to speak to me afterwards.
But he's a poet, and I sent it to him
because someone guessed who it was about.
So I thought, oh, shoot!
I really better send it to him.
And he was so generous and kind with his response,
and it opened up a nice conversation.
But you'll see maybe what I mean a little.
"Mastering."
I'm in Texas at a bar with a friend who doesn't drink
anymore, and I've missed him.
We order food and share and talk about aging bodies and Mexico
and how the mind goes mad.
We talk about a friend who's going blind,
the pressure on his brain, how much
we admire his fierce allegiance to this world,
his unflagging wail into the abyss.
I like being at this bar with a man I admire but don't love,
don't need to fleece for affection.
It makes me feel all grown up, like I
should get a good-job chip too.
We talk about marriage and the tender skin of the other.
I lay out the plans for my upcoming wedding--
a mountain named after the moon, blooms in my hair, my beloved.
We've known each other for almost 15 years,
my friend with eyes the color of a clear cenote.
I trust him.
He leans in, tells me the real miracle,
more than marriage, the thing that
will make you believe there might be a God after all,
is the making of a child.
He stares at me, but I'm not there anymore.
I don't say we've tried a long time, been sad, been happy,
and that perhaps the only thing I can make is love and art.
I want to tell him that's enough, isn't it?
Isn't love that doesn't result in a seed, a needy body,
another suckling animal, still love?
Isn't that supernatural?
Screw your God.
He's showing me a photo now of his child,
and I'm unfolding and folding the napkin.
He's pointing out how amazing his child is.
I order a drink because I can, and maybe because he can't.
He retreats in his seat.
I take a long sip and really look into his eyes.
I want him to notice what he said,
how a woman might feel agony, emptiness,
how he's lucky it's me he said it too
because I won't vaporize him.
I sip again.
I want him to see how much pleasure I
can handle, my tongue a tuning fork, how mute and mirror I
can be, even with all these ordinary wonders
he can't see swirling all around us.
He forgave me.
[LAUGHTER]