Under the moon: An American contrapuntal

Photo by Diana Parkhouse on Unsplash

I prefer that you are not angry with me,

I am not a slacker or a malingerer

With you I can be honest, I have a problem with my DNA.

The genetic malformation makes my life a heavy globe

to carry. Do not walk under my feet. Give me space.

You can be very funny - with your cutting wit

Funny enough to dissolve most men — like sulphuric acid.

But not me. I do not play with words.

So do notblush when I say this: your presence is like a languorous wave touching the sleeves of my shirt.

I like that you are with me as I become more ill

We embrace each other calmly. We do not need hell-fire sermons.

Instead you read Bleak House out loud for me.

Each word is like a kiss. A tender kiss.

You are gentle. There is no anger in your brown eyes flecked with green.

I lie here thinking in vain. Mainly of the past.

We do not mention illness. Neither in the day nor the night

Being alive is not like being in a synagogue or a church.

Life lacks the necessary silence. - but we can still sing