another leaving is imminent.
a chapter closing, the real book
beginning: here, with us.
every word means something, and
gets charted on this page;
every look, step, sigh
is gathered up to take a poll
and receive a judgment.
(we'd be luckier if the judgment
was passed by us instead of
others.) a jangle outside the door,
my heart leaps as the key gets
jammed into the lock--
it is not beneath me to beg you
to come home. or to ask for quiet,
to seek peace, requesting gentleness
all along this coarse, crass path.
if i was any less of a woman,
if you were any less of a man,
the difficult melodies we sing
wouldn't ring as clear as they do today.
a hundred thousand notes,
each a measure of adaptability
and solidity: sing me to sleep,
sing me each night a brighter day.
it is not beneath me to beg you
to come home.