Love Poem Number 9 Poem by Romella Kitchens

Romella Kitchens

Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania

Love Poem Number 9

Sometimes we must fall in love to live and not simply with human beings.
One late summer into Fall, I fell in love with bright pink gladiola flowers on a rental's lawn,
Beat poetry, vegan hot dogs and black coffee almost simultaneously.
I fell in love with umbrellas and fought with anyone who filched mine as if each umbrella
was a child or a friend I had taken out into the world and sworn to protect.
I loved and understood the moods of some people through the phases of the moon.
I fell in love with golden rod and the scent of dandelions on my fingers when I did lawn work.
I fell for car music and seeing people dance behind their steering wheels especially slight White men who looked like Woody Allen screaming out the lyrics of gun toting rap music and seemingly understanding it as part of the male aesthetic far better than I ever did.
Falling, falling, falling for being a woman and seeing my body's form and energy come back somewhat with the loss of even a little weight or, the return of health or healthier food.
I fell in love to tears with poems from children who had to work so hard to make those letters, those words on paper. I felt their souls in those words, their happiness. I visualized them as adults and wanted all things good for them.Falling, falling for clean pennies in a palm filled with dirty ones. For Pre-Raphaelite art again
and again.For a self-portrait of Rembrandt, his eyes so untamed and wild.
I fell in love with people's life stories when they told me them, of dying and dead fathers and, long dead alcoholic parents who never worked or cared and, being a life guard at a pool in the Italian part of town and how handsome all the girls thought they were, knew they were. I have been
completely swept away by gazing upon the rushing rivers of the Ohio Pyle. I have lingered on stories of coming home from war to learn your wife re-married the minute you went missing for too long...Enamored walking home swaying slightly from dinner with wine and singing to myself as I go.We owe the knowledge of death a special tribute, it will make us love the scent of soap on a stranger's body or brown, honest eyes even more.
Falling for Rumi, for Queen's Gambit, for two young people you do not know kissing beneath a tree
on the street, the leaves falling around them, her hair long, wavy and copper.
I have fallen for saving life. For holding blood into a shooting victim's body to no avail. I have kneeled with paper towels and tried to save as the ambulance never came.
Falling. That taste of cherries. That journal from someone dead. That dog no one else wanted


Romella Kitchens

Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania
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