a love poem

If I’m going to survive, I must make warm drinks. I must boil the water, select the mug, and also the tea - the latter two must align with the season and match the moon and whether I wish to feel free or safe.

If I’m going to survive, I must stop by the open window in the kitchen. Look out into the wildflower garden. Breathe deep the warm air, let my eyes half-close, and listen to the honeysuckle leaning into the screen. I must look for the sunlight and the way it paints the flowers gold, leaving long shadows behind every stem and bloom.

If I’m going to survive, I must wash my hands. I must feel the sweat dissolve. I must wash my face and smooth the creases on my forehead. I must touch my face like my gaze touches my child’s - when they smile and laugh as though nothing could ever hurt them. Not even God.

If I’m going to survive, I must talk to my cats. I must answer their chirps and chitters with humming and praise, and stroke their tails. I must give thanks when they lean against my calf and look at me with crystal eyes.

If I’m going to survive, I must find my partner’s hands. I must reach for them across the dark expanse of the couch. When we walk side by side I must catch one in mine and count the bones. I must hold their fingers to my palms and remember that theirs, and mine, have shaped this life and kept me alive.