Don’t be married unless you’ll be very married.

Marriage
BY LAWRENCE RAAB
Years later they find themselves talking
about chances, moments when their lives
might have swerved off
for the smallest reason.
What if
I hadn’t phoned, he says, that morning?
What if you’d been out,
as you were when I tried three times
the night before?
Then she tells him a secret.
She’d been there all evening, and she knew
he was the one calling, which was why
she hadn’t answered.
Because she felt—
because she was certain—her life would change
if she picked up the phone, said hello,
said, I was just thinking
of you.
I was afraid,
she tells him. And in the morning
I also knew it was you, but I just
answered the phone
the way anyone
answers a phone when it starts to ring,
not thinking you have a choice.

Poetry is truth in its Sunday clothes.

Preface

Love is
when one plus one gives you two
and morphs back into one
complex
consecrated
comglomerate
that somehow subtracts one
and one more
and one more
and one more
without shrinking.
Eventually
there comes a moment
when forever only lasts the space of the
QRS complex on the monitor
and you ask yourself
how you decomposed
back to
one
when you feel as hollow as
zero.

What abundance of grace was born to you that you could share with me?

I found the one whom my soul loves.

I found him in a coffee shop over two years ago and he held my hand as I jumped in puddles.  I found his eyes softening like butter when he gazed in awe at my freckles as the raindrops jealously kissed my face. I found his hand held onto mine despite the sweat that dared to slide between us in the 90 degree heat.

I found him when he laid next to me in the autumn leaves and held me against the on-coming chill. I found him when we stared in the flames of a bonfire and reveled in the comfort of the silence between us. I found him when he pulled his hat over his ears and buried his face in my hair to share the precious warmth.

I found him when he kissed my forehead to break the bonds of sleep – only to present a steaming mug of clarity (some call it coffee) as we watched the sunrise over the pier. I found him when we had a splash war in the water, and although he grabbed and threatened to dunk me, I never doubted that I was safe in the arms of my lifeguard.

The days turned to weeks, and the weeks tumbled into months, and the months stumbled into years and I waited to see if he could still be found.The baby face melted away into the chiseled cheekbones of a man. Depending on the day, the contacts would materialize into glasses. The peach fuzz of boyhood toughened into reddish bristles, neatly trimmed to frame the lips that still spoke words as warm as his embrace.

Then one day, I found him again.

I found him on one knee in the summer grass where the leaves had once laid with us in a blanket of color. I found myself blinded with the glint of a diamond while his hands shook in time with the beating of my heart.

And in that moment, I couldn’t find him.

When my eyes recovered, there he was.

A new title, a little older, a little more scared of the unknowns ahead, a little more excited too. And a little more mine.  I found him.

But what I didn’t realize, is that he found me.