sultry tymbals calling

in her darkest dress
of pressed ache and fever,
she clung she embraced the willow
with naked aspect and
faded inflorescence.

blind but
emerged. from the dirt. exited with nothing,
leaving a yellowed space behind, and
the sap she had nursed from cracked cups.
the tunneling to next had been with small tired
claws and tarnished spoons.

pale and dedicated
she ground toward the singing
and the click, and ground toward the chorus,
the madly swirling chorus,
the deafening orchestral play delivered of 
the male, the male
made musical, enchantment
resonating from the airy space of his guts. 
                                    
                    identify the song, wingflick and follow. 
                    he sang.  she moved her wings.  sing wing sing wing.
                    closer and closer. sing sing wing. wing

                    the surge the waves of uncomplex. 
                    match mate up and down
                    a sauntering
                    a jauntering
                    a mechanized
                    mystery,
                    clocklike connection
                    ununderstood.

after the seduction
there are larvaed nests and
completion.  under the white willow
there is the braided shadow and beam
and she fastens to something bigger.

this is the brutalest cadence.

...and the greatest of these is love.

on a recent flight to germany i was seated next to someone whom i overheard saying, into a cell phone as we were waiting to take off, that no, cocktails had not yet been proffered, followed by a sigh of disgust.  i knew at that moment we would be friends.

we wound up partaking of many cocktails, and staying up all night talking.  finally the flight attendants were just handing the drinks to us as we approached the galley, so they could sleep on and not have to deal with the credit card machine.  which was handy, because these teeny tiny little drinks ran 7 bucks each.  anyway, often laughing hysterically, and between repeated tipsy attempts to name all seven dwarfs ("lumpy?") we hit upon many subjects of great import, including defining "the great love" of a lifetime.  naturally, in discussing this paramount topic deeply and profoundly, if not wetly, we elaborated with our personal histories, from our thoughts on our tender or disastrous first loves, to our older, wiser understanding of love today:  and of what constitutes the love of one's life.  (naming the kids as the great love didn't count--that's a cheater's way out.)

wonderful they are, confessions.  it was like being in the 5th grade again, lying in a circle in leah carter's back yard, playing truth and dare in our sleeping bags under the stars.  i have always loved the thrilling charm of that, but this time it was dare-to-tell-the-truth-every-time,  which is probably the adult version of the game.  not a lot of room to dance like a chicken in a plane, and everyone flying had probably already seen a naked body dashing about; bolder it is to truly reveal innermost selves.  sometimes revealing the truth is the riskiest tact.  (of course:  not so much when the witness is also fairly anonymous and is someone one will most likely--if one does not correspond and eventually go together to that jazz club downtown--never see or hear from again.)  so now, weeks later, i have not written to continue the conversation, but have been relaughing the night, and rethinking the subject.

should the love of our lives be our first love?  the person with whom we experienced our first kiss?  (no way on the kiss thing).  the first person with whom we felt that the "we" could last forever, except it didn't?  the person one marries?  first marries?  marries last?  the person who sets one free?

i have my ideas on this but since i am not sitting in a darkened plane next to a heretofore complete stranger, confessing, i hesitate to elaborate.  ply me with gin and tonics and call me the queen of arlington, in the realm of virginia, and i may change my mind, of course.  (it's been done before.) but, the question remains, and is a pretty one, for me.  if you have some insight as to the nature of what constitutes the greatest love of a lifetime, you can help inform the ruminations by sharing, completely anonymously, right here.  i like the memories that come to mind as i consider past/present lovers, and the ways they have influenced my life for the better.  or not (which person/people would not be in the running for greatest love of life or whatever we will call it--though, even if bitterer, there is value to be had from those cads, too.)

just that thought.  for now.  

prufrock's--or my--confession

a friend wrote this in closing:

sii sempre grande

and the trouble with my rusty italian or maybe my love of words or maybe just with me but here i go
is that in this case grande could mean "great", or it could mean "big".  now, these things are similar
but they are also different and each meaning could have appropriate and useful bearing, could be a secret message, synchronous and prophetic, a symbolic subtitle to help me make sense of the story of life right now, that i could recognize.  and treasure.

but, which grande.  should i write back and ask?  "did you mean big or did you mean great?"  and that is ridiculous and not just because either definition would be wholly satisfying.  so i should just choose.  but because each is equally satisfying as the other, and so there is no clear cut choice which should be made, i am left debating not only which meaning to embrace, but now whether or not i should write and ask, and in the end i realize through the insane focus on word meaning and forced fortunes that what i am really asking is:

do i dare to eat a peach?

and this is the crux of it.  as usual.