Three Poems of Love

by Doug van Hooser 

I am milkweed, you are the caterpillar

I was not fair to you. 

Offered candy but did not 

remove the wrapper. 

Expected you to eat the peel, not the fruit. 

It does not matter 

which direction the wind blows. 

It will not catch our sail, 

we cannot set out to sea. 

Our ship tied to a pier, 

waves rub it against ungiving pilings.

An albatross sits 

on my shoulder, squawks in my ear, 

peals a mantra of guilt 

slick as a lie. Even though our roots

grip the soil, we cannot 

germinate. Like a kite at the end of its string 

we bob and weave, try

to break free. I am milkweed, 

you are the caterpillar. 

When you are full of me you will pupate,

emerge, fly off, the stain 

of my milk’s taste stay with you.

Fantasia

Were I a real writer, I would not undress you with my eyes.

I’d have a story and Pied Piper you. 

My charm a beignet. My insouciance a roofie. 

You, a duckling, would imprint on me.

You would double pike from the cliff 

and slip without a splash into my cool blue water. 

Your smile and laughter would rise like bread dough.

The sparkle in your eyes a milky way.

Your lips’ hunger a honeycomb.

My arms would lift you from the floor,                    

your arms and legs wrap me in a spiderweb.

Our furnace would overheat the room, steam the windows.

We’d pirouette and fouetté.

Like addiction, you would look to me for your fix.

Purr and rub against my words.

Consume me in small bites,

chew thoroughly, never sated.

You would wave from the other side of the road, 

cross without looking.

And at the end, tears in your voice,

you would leave me. 

Distance

In the dark sky the space between stars

is not great. 

At four A.M.

the owls’ hoots find each other.

The valley from wave to wave

depends on the wind’s hands.

To cross a desert 

can be more difficult

than to climb a mountain.

Even harder: waiting’s weight.

Time refuses to bathe

unable to tell if the sun 

is rising or setting, if behind the clouds 

the moon is full. 

No difference if pursuit

walks, trots, or gallops.

Will tomorrow be 

just another tick and tock?

The end hides out of sight.

The brunt bares its eyes

and sees the distance 

between you and me 

does not grow like a weed.

It’s a tender plant 

whose roots go deep.