mr. p

i wrote this for peter a few months ago, after he had been diagnosed with cancer of the esophagus. he died last saturday. i'll be writing about him in one way or another for the rest of my life. more than anyone it was peter who urged me to write, who convinced me i was good at it, and who led me to believe in myself. peter, wherever you are, read this poem again. and find peace in your heart knowing that you'll forever be in mine.

mr. p

thirty years ago
it was
when we met
at a street corner
and i said playfully
'let's get together and talk about old times.'
i was younger than you by eleven years.
you smiled and so did i
and so began our conversation.

although as you would tell it
it began in a slightly different way.
you saw me at my desk
wearing a danskin and jeans, seemingly focused on my work,
all the while looking very slyly at you.
you caught it and i knew it.
i was the girl for you.
you were a crazyman, somewhat disshevelled.
a missing tooth,
which was puzzling
for someone as handsome as you.
something cool and a shade of hip
energized, electric, yet a nuance of something tired and worn.
and i couldn't figure it out
how you, with your bagels and chinese food, your
bravado performance, and your sherman cigarettes, would
be the one to steal my heart.

but now i realize it had little to do
with the stories you told, how you made me laugh
your somewhat sleazy smile, your downright wizardry in the kitchen
or the fact
you had my father's nose.
it was something else, something
intangible, illogical, a fact of life,
which was simply
that you loved me and i loved you.
right then and there--forever.

and through all these years
spent together and apart-
laughing, crying,
shooting arrows through the mist
or holding each other in the storm
to brace against the cold,
the love we have
has laughed in our poor bedraggled faces.
for what fools we are indeed
to think we can decide whether to love or not.
love simply is, like the passage of time,
like it or not.

which is what we knew when first we saw each other-
in the shadows of a quiet building on vallejo street-where
we began our conversation.
not quite conscious a thought,
but a melody we both heard.
a recognition of someone
we've known and loved since the beginning of time
before the invention of the telephone.
remember when we talked for three hours?
before the invention of paper
remember the poem you wrote?
seven pages of thoughts, scrawled
on lined three-ring paper
telling me (and you) of feelings
you had stored away for
the winter, as you had
for so many seasons before.

the snow falling outside your window
so cold inside, you shivered
and then--from a time
you didn't yet remember --
my face appeared behind the frosted glass.

and our daughter--the best of both of us.
we dreamed of her.
christmas in july, remember?


i can't go away, nor can you
we're linked forever, we are.
you in me
and i in you.
mr p, i love you