Pour

Dec 25 2015

If only

you could pour yourself into her;

clear into clear

up to the light.

But you are not liquid,

seeking your level, no matter how deep,

mixing

like water in wine.

Your pigment, billowing out,

your colours entwined.

And she is a vessel

whose shape is fixed,

and can hold

only so much.

Dive in

and let her contain you.

Or overflow, and run;

her tightly cupped hands

all she is able to give.

The conceit of romantic love is that we can give ourselves over, be fully known and understood. But even at our best -- exposed, surrendering, truthful -- we can never be fully known, and are always essentially alone. And if there must be some mystery, something inaccessible, this disillusion should not be taken as a marker of insincerity, a test of commitment, a failure of love.

I thought of how one pours oneself out, in the confessional intimacy of a deep relationship. And as soon as that verb came to mind, it became literal. This gave me the gift of the opening line; and from there, the poem pretty much wrote itself.

(The immediate inspiration for this poem was piece of brilliant TV: the 3rd episode of the 2nd season of The Affair. The only other time I remember yelling at the TV as if they could hear me (and with enough intensity to scare the dog!) was watching live sports.)