Plain Planes

They say this can’t be love,

it’s too episodic for them to understand

that depth always matters more to me

than breadth (or even breath).

Too many betrayals, like there’s a meter on my heart that counts infractions and fractures.

There isn’t.

I don’t even have a pacemaker, and you can’t math love.

Shotguns, speeding trains, wives, and wisdom

never kept us apart.

Promises never kept us together.

This love is mine, breaking rules with me, the rebel of your heart.

I never wanted a gravy boat or rehearsed speeches,

and I was in a church in a white dress with you the night we met.

It was enough, told you two years later

that I wouldn’t wear another one just to get you

out of the barracks at Fort Bliss.

After your appendectomy, remember?

It felt like quartz of you in me.

The Chick-fil-A will always be my favorite

sandwich.

I’m eternally grateful

that I was a teenager in love

with you all those years ago.

Then you went jumping,

out of airplanes

into occupied territory

and brought all of yourself back

so we could wage war against each other.

Nobody won, or maybe we both did.

This miracle of a grandson

should know that love doesn’t need calendars or maps.

It knows what it needs, wanders into every open heart it finds.

People who don’t know this

should be avoided, not eaten.

I don’t care that we can’t stay together.

You have to leave to return.

I love the returns, send you away

so you can come back.

A boomerang is a safe vehicle

for a man who isn’t afraid to jump,

has faith in landings,

dares the earth to fail him.