I still don’t know
what you could possibly mean
when you say that you love me.
It isn’t clear.
We could not, first, define the term,
not then, not now.
Then, I asked if it were sex:
that struck a nerve, I fear.
I think ‘bout love and loving –
you don’t have a clue
though when erect – these words come first:
Oh, oh, OH! I DO love you.
Could you conceive of simple solicitude?
[That means you CARE!]
You know, four syllables –
to care for someone ELSE!
Does care mean food and shelter,
clothes and funds to spend
on mere frivolities?
Do they as gifts require me extend
myself prostrate to do your bidding,
supine, you do your will
by expectations, great or small,
and I must stay until
your satisfaction is complete,
to which I have no vote –
demands of yours one sided made
without a thank you note?
Suppose a barren island
were left to us our home –
would you still care for only me
just two of us, none else,
just we two all alone?
and treat me as your cherished queen
without a crown, food, clothing, walls
to shelter from the storm?
and would you still try touching me
as often you do now
when all you have to touch
is what you’ve touched before?
Would we together equals be
against all forces fight
to shelter both against
all foes in day or night?
The insect, spiders, snakes, and slugs
we find in rotting piles
are all we find to eat –
would you still share them equally?
I stand before you nakedly,
just fronds to hide beneath.
Would you still try to stare at me
as I at you – without a fig or leaf?
And if I felt so ghastly sick
with vomit, puking blood,
and frantic bowels, belching stools,
would caring be your mood?
Or if my skin were filled with scales
no longer smooth, too rough,
would you still hold me close,
or say, “Enough’s enough!”
You see, dear love, what loving is
much more than words to me.
It’s more of what you say and do
that shows what love should be.
