Love’s on first

At first Love was (we were)   strange

as an embryo. Mini flanges, all grasp

and need.  A thing I (we) got heavy with. 

A thing that needed both of us just to  be.

Then, later, willful (LORD!), unreasonable.

Demanding its     (my, your)         own way.

All          mule            kicks and handstands. 

How I wished to                        leave

it  (you, us)    at the fire station some

days.  It’s (we’ve) always been more

than I even know how to want. More

than I know what to do with—-more

than I can         handle or understand.

It is (we      are) always too  real

to prevent it (   us   ) from being

this unemployed ecstatic dancer

this flood of unintended daffodils

(instead of the staid,      the beige

accountant  we were  hoping for).

Looking back at what I thought

was love—before   you, and us,

and all this nonsense , I see that I was playing

with dolls.  Pretty and compliant, silent when

set

down

—not like this bellowing thing,

            this joy, and stomp, and

            “what’s for dinner, huh?”

Kathleen Madrid is a suburban housewife and poet who lives in the suburbs of Denver with her suburban husband Tony, three suburban Newfies and a sawed-off Mutt named Whiskey. Her work has appeared in Twyckenham Notes, Rue Scribe and Cathexis Northwest Press.