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My Love Is Too Much -Vanessa Daou |
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My love is too much |
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It embarrasses you |
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Blood poems babies |
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Red needs that telephone |
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From foreign countries |
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Black needs that spatter |
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The pages |
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Of your white papery heart |
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You would rather have a girl |
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With simpler needs |
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Lunch sex undemanding |
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Loving |
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Dinner wine bed |
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The occasional blow job |
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And needs that are never |
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Red as gaping wounds |
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But cool and blue |
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As television screens |
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In tract houses |
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Oh my love |
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Those simple girls |
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With simple needs |
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Read my books too |
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They tell me they feel |
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The same as I do |
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They tell me I transcribe |
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The language of their hearts |
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They tell me I translate |
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Their mute unspoken pain |
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Into the white light |
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Of language |
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Oh love |
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No love |
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Is ever wholly undemanding |
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It can pretend coolness |
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Until the pain comes |
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Until the first baby comes |
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Howling her own infant need |
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Into a universe |
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That never summoned her |
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The love you seek |
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Cannot be found |
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Except in the white pages |
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Of recipe books |
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It is cooking you seek |
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Not love |
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Cooking with sex coming after |
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Cool sex |
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That speaks to the penis alone |
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Not the howling chaos |
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Of the heart |