How Do You Know What Love Is
When you look in the crib and see
your beautiful baby boy, or niece,
you know.
When you stare past the irises of the one you
chose--who chose you--and see a path straight to their
soul, you know.
When you hold your mothers hand as she
drifts away to the cloud we’ve only heard about,
and your soul feels less complete now,
you know.
When you wake up to find your father stone-still
like a sleeping statue with no warm flesh or pulse
and you cry knowing something is wrong, but you’re
too little to really see what,
you know.
When you’re in your car with a full belly
sitting on your heated seat on a cold winter
day and you look out your window and see
a child standing guard watching over his mother
as she sleeps to regain what little energy her body
can sequester and maybe you shed a tear,
you know.
When you come home and you just sit and think.
And all the memories of America, of you, bore their
way back into the center of your mind you realize
this might be wrong. Maybe you’ve lived all wrong.
And you might find a rope, or dad’s old gun, and
you chamber the round, tie the noose to finish it, but you
find a little hope, and you decide you don’t want to end it all
so you put your tools away; you pack it
all up and tuck it to stay, hopefully never to see the light of day,
you know.
You ask, “What is love?”
You know.
You know.
