OK.
I think maybe two more poems.
This is a little love poem called "Fado."
My mom's family is Portuguese.
And a fado is--
it's a style of folk singing which
is very passionate and over the top in a lot of ways.
As a kid, I remember being taken to see these humongous,
older women in very elaborate black dresses singing
this stuff.
It's operatic in a way.
But also, the sound of it has some quality
of Middle Eastern scales in it.
In one sense, it's like the blues.
But in another sense, it's just otherworldly.
So the poem, at some point, makes reference
to this style of singing.
"Fado."
"At some point in our lives, let's say,
some place both alarming and companionable,
maybe a ledge almost too high for any return,
we might have to hope safety descends
from the sky like a long wicker basket
dangling off a grappling hook.
Why not this one?
Ours will be a touch made out of four, maybe
five very eager pronouns.
So put down your wine.
Why not call it a test?
As if to prove the fact you and I
will never become one creature can't matter.
And every expectation is not a dress rehearsal for death.
I don't need anything now.
I want everything.
Each button loosened into each breath dreamed.
Right now it's likely I am nearly the equal
of a mole, an eccentric one who wishes to root down a mountain.
He longs for innocence, as we all do.
My heart feels like an overused paw;
heedless, compulsive, strong but sore,
prone to aching from days of digging.
It is the mole in me, nearly blind, a little furtive,
shrugging, who lights the candles.
My eyes sliding from the floor to your face
like one of the singers of fado; those trembling Portuguese
tunnelers, those doubters who puzzle their own doubt,
embracers of the impossible.
Now put me in danger, your mouth on mine.
And let me do the same for you."