One day my lover. The next day she didn’t say a word to me.
A coward? That’s okay. That’s what we want. To be free.
To be silent, if we want, when someone says “Hey! Answer me!”
The best relationship is when you don’t say a word.
There’s nothing to say. Resting by sun and leaf and bird,
The meadow winking and wandering below
With blossoms covering the valley as if the blossoms were snow,
Sunlight almost scientific, looking like honey kept in a glass,
Its resemblance to science almost scientific, as it lingers in the artistic grass.
She wanted a silent, professional, equipoise.
She feared poetry, memory, talk, baths, noise.
Her sudden bursts of anger over nothing, I tried to figure out.
My Innocent questions she perceived as calling her honor into doubt.
I couldn’t remember the formula—when a girl gets mad
When there’s a faint hint she is, does this mean she’s bad?
I was sickly, affectionately, in love with her. I loved her well.
But this meant I wasn’t able to figure things out when it came to her too well.
Gently accused, does the virgin get angry—or is it the whore?
Well, it’s long over. I don’t really care anymore.
But yesterday I saw a wise Indian woman speak in a video,
And what she did was brilliant, and now I think I know.
She called a skinny girl in the audience fat. Universal laughter.
Called fat, skinny smiles. A self-worth lesson easily known.
If my irritated lover was secretly a whore, it’s good I found out after.
Now let her be angry alone.