R., my dear
R., my dear,
everyone loves you.
the boys at the safeway
see you as meat
or what they think
R., my dear,
you are beautiful in
a way I don't see in men
all men are strong
all men are beautiful strong men
all men are strong beautiful men wanting for sex
all men are strong beautiful men wanting for sex, but just not mine
all men are sweaty and strong
and their shoulders and necks cry
to be caressed
but I do not love them
R., can I call you Carrington?
R., when we watched the movies I wanted to hold you
R., your talk is hilarious and loving
R., you are a mother, and I understand
R., what does this all matter?
In the end, I think you understand.
Four years, I pregnant with poems, and
you with child.
I am ugly and you are beautiful in a way that
all the strong men are not, though their shoulders
scream to be kissed, caressed
I am ugly, and you are beautiful,
but I understand you, and you understand me.
Four years, five since we went to the high school dance.
When I'm with you I am like your father's planes, I soar.
I am ugly and you are beautiful,
but you are not my Roxanne,
though I am Cyrano in many other ways
everyone else thinks that you are their Roxanne
I know better
you are my Dulcinea
Poem © 2001 Stan Blakeman, all rights reserved
appears here by permission