Old kettles

There's a lump in my throat
when I hover over the idea of saying these truths to you
not because there was anything or would be or will be
but because I am fond of you,
because your blessing matters,
because I feel like a child around you.

There's a quickening to my heart
when you speak in a tone that is meant only to address me
and I can't figure out what it means like my mother tongue is something
quite different to the phonemes you produce
and I have much grace for where I am, much thanks and much love.
It's been said that love is like a kettle.

There's a steadiness here, at home,
that doesn't make me feel queasy or held up like a large, suffocating fish on a boat.
They say love is like a kettle. You would never take a boiling kettle and set in on the stove,
you take cold water and allow it to warm. I never could apply this saying as well as when I think of you,
as an adventure, as a climax, as someone to be disappointed when these normal pleasures,
these kind and calm pleasures take full hold.

There's perfection in my spirit, in my belly, in my tongue, knowing now, despite not wanting to announce it or change the dynamic
that actually my life is taking a positive route.
That my soul and heart and lungs will be enriched with a steady affection that will bloom every year and
it will fill me up, like those first days a rose peels open
and I want so much for you to have that, to be happy, satisfied, adored
with someone with a little more adventure than I, but just as much tenderness.