When the postcard is hung upside down the plane flies away on its back. I know one of those irregular days with the disposition of a bee-stung mule is on its way to visit me. I have found diplomacy goes a long way and when it runs out, humor is the best fallback, nothing mean or sophomoric, but the ability to laugh is a fortune in the face of a bankrupt day. When the sun sets on these spare and harrowing days, I mortgage strength from tomorrow and right the picture then try to fly right.
Plod when you can’t skip.
The Twelfth of April
When I met you,
you were a power tagged and trapped in a box.
A tiger caught by its toe and yet I could do nothing
but fall under the spell of your roar.
The suppressed growl you leave for me
like an invitation I could never decline.
I write to you a note of explanation;
words testifying to my desire,
which I promise to hold back out of respect for you.
And a wish to survive my drive toward you
and your furious stripes and claws.
Your bite which I long to feel,
yet know I must not ask for.
When I inquire if you have read,
you say with sanguine smile, “Read it to me.”
When I am done and with tear stained face,
all you reply is,
“I have lost my taste for anyone but you.”
You are reading selections from Sober on the Way to Sane and More Lines From My Life by Sherrie Theriault