what a love story it might be
if only she could
walk away from fire
and he could walk away from drink
she a tall lanky philosophy
professor - he a saxophonist
her life now in a soviet state
his in the trappings of new york
he stayed where she left him
he thinks of the mountains
and is acutely aware of her
pain. how her childhood house
burnt down. and for all his
narcissism, he can still sense
he can help if only to ease
that he is part of her past
melodies carefully drafted
practiced until their life
was music. recorded then
stored. perhaps he'll go
south: help wash away
the scent of fire and dirt
remind her life is more
than items badly injured
help her long fingers heal
from all the washing. she
was not born to the labor
of work where backs hurt
and children cry and want
she is a reed, the wind
can bend. her voice
her gift, her mind her highest
calling. so perhaps my little brother can reach
her and kiss her on the cheek
remind her of her true love
not him - but her
and in return she can remind
him of his true love
not her - but his
