Everyday Poetry: What Did We Know

I grabbed his hand and ran wild

into roped-off spaces of ancient digs

following a man with a machine gun into the shadows.

He said he knew then that he loved me;

why else would he have followed a wild-child of a beautiful mess

like me into the dark unknown of catacombs

half way around the world from

where he first read about them in books

dreamed of a brown-eyed girl.

But what did he know of love.


I followed him a few months later

a sparkling diamond on my ring finger

back to his old stomping grounds

promised I did and I do and I would.

But what did I know of vows.


I birthed him two babies

and we built a life and planted a garden

of trust and tears and laughter

in our backyard and living room,

found out what sickness and worse

and pockets of poorer meant.

Looked at each other, hands on hips,

from across the room some nights

before finally giving in,

melting into each other's arms

wondering aloud

what we knew of love.


I've stained his shirt with soft gray smudges of eyeliner

and hot tears more days than not now

in these four weeks and counting

since the baby in my womb traded

breathing amniotic fluid for angel air

And we've folded up into conversation

of babies gone

and sleeping soundly in the next room

of heavenly lights

and earthly darkness

of questions pleaded into the night

and answers given by morning sun

of a rugged tree where He was nailed

and an empty tomb where He was risen

Realizing exactly what we now know of love

and still also have yet to grasp.

Join us every Monday for every-day poetry during the month of April!