for Beth
Love is not love that never looked
within itself and questioned all,
curled up like a zygote in a ball,
throbbed, sobbed and shook.
(Or went on a binge at a nearby mall,
then would not cook.)
Love is not love that never winced,
then smiled, convinced
that soar's the prerequisite of fall.
When all
its wounds and scars have been saline-rinsed,
where does Love find the wherewithal
to try again,
endeavor, when
all that it knows
is: O, because!
Originally published by Neovictorian/Cochlea, Deronda Review and Stremez (translated into Macedonian by Marija Girevska)
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Love has many aspects. However, remains the same.
The first poem I wrote for my wife Beth was titled " Enigma." In some ways we know each other so well, in others not at all.