view from 20

I was picking dandelions from next doors backyard and thinking
love is not just Luke-warm organs grinding together,
or having somebody at the other end of a telephone line
approximately sixty nine percent of the time,
or lottery tickets and movie screens with a ring on a forth finger.
Love is a gasping-for-breath twenty thousand foot freefall,
or 120miles per hour on the motorway and four hours on an airplane
to see your smile, with my chest ripped open and neck cracking
more than usual. Love is hands on face on lips on cheeks,
love is on the inside of our eyelids, on the inside of our veins,
we can't dig deep enough to get at it with silver tea spoons
and kitchen knifes on our own.

Love is discovery, love is kissing head-tops, love is shovelling out black heart cells
and licking them clean. It's stomping on my toes with a nudge stick in its hands and a squeal in its voice
saying - stop avoiding, stop the excuses, and for God's sake, stop being scared.
Then love laughs and pretends to be a comedian before pulling nine rabbits out of its hat
while slapping its knees.
Love is you, opening hot air balloons with your palms, while I write a thank you post it note
to stick to your forehead, though I can't say it big enough, loud enough, strong enough
then I always want to make up new words for the dictionary.

Yesterday I decided I would be honest with myself.
I am not a real poet; I am not a child,
just a woman with more than hour glasses in her eyes.
I am punching holes in more than just paper, I am having arguments
with more than just my own flesh since you came along with a bulldozer
to gouge me out and delve inside, unearthing things
I have never seen or heard or felt before.