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Today I received a letter from my dear friend, who told me that she was finally, after five years, able to celebrate New Year’s Eve with her mother and stepfather, because her grandmother had celebrated Christmas with her mother, and wouldn’t be there. She could finally celebrate a holiday with her mother, because her grandmother, who doesn’t support her lifestyle, wouldn’t be there.

My friend has a wife. The fact that she has a wife, and is a woman, is a love thing, and I love them both for their bravery and their “lifestyle”.  I tend to think that their lifestyle isn’t any different than ours. They like to have brunch, in bed, with their dogs, just like we do, and they love one another with a big, gorgeous kind of love, just like we do. But I know that it is different, because they face a harsh, bullshit reality that I can’t begin to fathom. No one has ever called me unnatural.

Why deny love in a world like this? Why would you scorn something so beautiful, when the world needs every loving moment? That I can’t answer.

But Lauren can:

I went to college, and I know the words, mostly, but I still need practice using them in a way that makes my colleagues and peers feel the way I feel.

Any love poem that includes “I” and “You” can for everyone. For example:


Coming together
it is easier to work
after our bodies
paper and pen
neither care nor profit
whether we write or not
but as your body moves
under my hands
charged and waiting
we cut the leash
you create me against your thighs
hilly with images
moving through our word countries
my body
writes into your flesh
the poem
you make of me.
Touching you I catch midnight
as moon fires set in my throat
I love you flesh into blossom
I made you
and take you made
into me.
“You create me against your thighs”, is an amazing line, and it doesn’t matter who for whom it is written. It just doesn’t. 
For my dear friend, who knows who she is, here is a poem:
Love is a Good Thief
Isn’t love a good thief? Nearly as good as war, or business, but not quite.
I’m dearly sorry for the staggering anguish, I know you are tired of the daily fame of the fight,
Forget the sight and the artless fingers of politics, know that there are many who hold the nightly folding in our hearts with ease,
and would allow gracefully the throbbing immensity of each of rapture.
Coping daily with surging whips of smaller minds and battered prisons,
you make the sidelong music of soaring juices and the seeds of better children.
Loved children.
Take these stranded books. Read them. Cast off those of a forgetting nature,
bent on denying nature, because slowly
the country wakes.
Take a path too paved with human spite, elegiac in spite of your bravery.
Straight up too alike, too personal, too close to a familiar burning, you wave with such courage.
Burning without smoke, do you stop to ask its origin?
For those with professional grades, pinioned to their truths,
do not bend and say “she’s my friend”.
In every life birds take over in the stomach.
Those dried up notions of basket sins, you will kill with swooping courses and the down of spreading cottons.
Faced with those numb boxes of the red right uprights,
kiss back the scoldings.
Paradise probably obsesses over you.
No. It is calling for you.
I don’t know. I tried. I love you, my friend, and I love your big love that I get to see on Facebook, with your wife. Happy Friday, poemfriends.  Love to you all, anna.