Treason
by Mikko Harvey
I am okay at writing poems about love, but bad at actually loving. Okay at walking through the rain and thinking that each drop upon my skin is like a tiny burst of love but bad at actually loving. Okay at basketball and knowing the names of trees, but bad at actually loving. Okay at offering advice to my friends about love, or preparing a meal with love, or being aware of the fact that I am being bad at love while I am being bad at it, but bad at actually loving. Okay at mythologizing and regurgitating memories of love years later, but bad at actually loving. Okay at loving you when you’ve fallen asleep in my arms and I run my fingers through your hair and feel your steady, peaceful breathing and my one job is to lie still so as not to wake you. Okay at loving you in those narrow moments, but I always wake you up in the end by accident by turning the pages of my book or adjusting the pillow or reaching over to turn off the lamp— and in the sphere of that silence there is no greater crime than disrupting your steady, peaceful breathing. So I turn to my attorney, who is a giant praying mantis. He explains the plea deal the court of insects is offering: one half of the rest of whatever forever turns out to be. Just a half, he says, nudging me. In that moment, his expertise is palpable. This is a praying mantis who has honed his knowledge and skill through long, earnest hours of training. He understands the legal process and he is gazing at it calmly, hoping I will be reasonable. But what also becomes terrifyingly palpable is my realization that such expertise can be so powerful and self-sustaining it ceases to reflect reality. I open my mouth to explain myself, but as I do my attorney kisses me, and I am filled with green light.
First published in ONLY POEMS