Married Before

We've all been married to each other countless times:
it's complicated.

Our prenuptial agreements gave everything
away to the ex: that's why we're poor.

It's why you feel this flame in your chest
when you gaze at the baby in the grocery store.

He was the king betrothed to your eternal soul.
The wizened crone, inching forward on her walker

like a gray wrinkled worm,
was the girl you ran away with, the vixen

who yearned to be a pirate's wife.
It's why that dark perfect stranger makes
the twigs inside you bud with so much nectar

you just want to get down and do it
right here on the floor at Costco.

We're an Autumn garden of softening gourds,
crisping petals in a sunbeam,

mushrooms tangled around each others
golden roots, because in Heaven

none of us ever really got divorced.
We're still all rolling around on a king-sized

mattress, exchanging crimson cups of wine
in our twin-chambered honeymoon suite.

What more can I say, beautiful one?
This passion precedes breathing.

You gazed at me, I was created.
We were in love before the Word

could whisper, "let there be light,"
before any God so loved the world

that he betrothed his only son
to the Lady in the Garden.

When darkness opened its wound
to become a heart,

we taught God how to sing.
We touched before there were hands.