I love one who hates me. For years. But I've never stopped to think whether it's divine to love in the face of hate. Am I imitating God? Why she hates me is not germane--- those details would distract us---they are mundane. Jealousy, too much red wine. I guess I could give a summary by saying I grew paranoid and thought she didn't love me and, caught in my own trap, found to my horror I had made it true--- after a while it didn't help that she and I knew. One morning I pushed the matter too far; the sun which fed my days blinked, becoming an angry, distant star. No more close-up conversations; mine an intimacy of the sad astronomer, plagued hourly by the pitied memory of that star which thought of me savagely and almost entirely from afar--- circumstance kept us in the same circles--- a mystical shift of stars imitating biblical miracles, defining who we think we never are, making my poems smooth, pleading, oracles. I guess the only question whether it's divine or not is if I love because of hate. Am I sadistic in my broken state? Does my passion need her hate? Absolutely not. "Please stop hating me. I drink water now, not wine. I only love to love and love you. I would give up poetry--- except for the occasional poem of praise--- magisterial, happy--- by Plato's Republic permitted, loved even in my reckless days.
