I want to marry you. Don’t
bother me with the facts:
that we’ve never met; that you
might have other arrangements.
I haven’t told you that your
signature is tattooed on my left
wrist; that your belly is already
starting to swell with our first
child.
Nights I hold you in my arms:
Rehearsing
the language of our bodies.
I come alive under the instruction
of your tall fingers.
I know you are beautiful from
my collection of faxed photos;
the hearsay of your voice in
the vast auditorium of my
imagination. Anticipating
the exquisite requirements
of your smile.
Ours is a play for voices focusing
two lifetimes into minutes. Across
a thousand lonely kilometers.
And when the phone goes dead
I start to worry that I’ve said
Too little or too much: continuing
Our conversation in my head.
Antibes, August 1994 Poetry Anthology