I Wish I'd Written This

A Meeting of Straying Minds  (Valentine) 

By Karin Gustafson

Love is knowing (sort of)

that when I, the vegetarian for many years,
grow even more decrepit, forgetful, blind,

you, who have never truly understood beans,

will not feed me meat.

It’s a pact that I’ve repeatedly extracted—
”you promise,” I say, nearly tearful, and you reply,
blushingly, yes, no, of course not, so I’m pretty clear

that even as you too grow old, you will not

slop me into a chair with your extra chop

at my chin—

But what worries suddenly

is me:

that, after decades of non-carnivorous cravings,

I will slaver, in my senility, for

your sirloin.

At first, you will saw the cuts with resistance,
your elbow blocking my claw, but,
as I whimper, you just might,

in some trumped-up trompe mind’s l’oeil,

excuse the bloody bits as for my good,
a poor woman’s Procrit,

and, careful to whittle away all gristle,
spoon some down my craw.

On the one hand, this a problem in our love—that you give in to me—
and on the other hand, this is a problem in our love—
that you never do as I ask—
and on the third and fourth hands—because thankfully

we have them (clasped), this is also our great wonder—
that you, who try always for the meet and

right, no matter, will be there with me, even

demented,

promoting your sometimes skewed

but always sweetened sense

of my true needs, even if they involve

my grazing from your plate

(something you absolutely hate

in anyone else.)

Though I wonder now whether I shouldn’t get the words

“do not feed meat” tattooed—
only they would have to letter my forehead—(I can’t imagine,

as we recede, you reading below my sleeve)—

and I worry that, with such a phrase emblazoned, people

might feel that they also should keep me from knives—

And there can be so very many lives

in a single life—take the one you lent me when

my old had emptied—

that it is perhaps better to keep vows off

of one’s brow, even those about meeting someone more

than half-way, the way you meet 

me, though that line admittedly shifts sometimes,
while somehow our hearts stay always

in the exact right place.

What a love poem! How wonderfully it conveys long-term, married love.

The formatting didn't come through quite right in the version Karin sent me. It was fine until I tried to reproduce it here; then it went a bit haywire and I had to go through and make sure all the lines ended where she meant them to. In the process I became even more impressed with this poem — with the crafting of it. I couldn't tell by myself where to break the lines, but the minute I did it as Karin intended, the emphasis fell naturally onto the right words and the piece turned into poetry (not chopped-up prose).

Perhaps you've seen it before. I know a number of Poets United participants, like me, are also involved in dVerse Poets Pub, where Karin, who blogs at ManicDDaily, is a frequent presenter. And this poem was included in the recent dVerse anthology, Voices of Contemporary World Poetry (also available as an eBook). Of course, some of you are in it too!

If you have seen the piece before, I trust you don't mind revisiting it. I just fell in love with it straight away and wanted to share it with all those who might not have come across it yet. It deals with the dailiness, the little things, with humour and candour. I find it actually incredibly intimate: a very bravely revealing poem.

Karin, a practising attorney who lives in New York city, is both a writer and an illustrator. She has published a collection of poetry, Going on Somewhere, a children's counting book 1 Mississippi, and most recently Nose Dive, described as 'a light-hearted mystery novel about teenagers, Broadway musicals, love, noses, New York'. You can check out her books at BackStrokeBooks and Amazon. And, if you haven't yet had the pleasure, do follow the link to her blog!

Note: In fact she has recently moved to upstate New York. See details in her comment below.

Poems and photos used in ‘I Wish I’d Written This’ remain the property of the copyright holders (usually their authors).