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  • And so the night came, and our bare chests,

    On the day of the big flood down the stairs at Union Station.

    From the deep waters you flew back to my window,

    Your accordion wings humming blue stars.

    You said, "Momma, I want to be with you. Can you please forgive me?"

    But it was I who needed forgiving. Didn't I?

    Yet up from the sodden waters you flew your wings, gleaned from the night garbage and the dumpsters of heaven, where love resides and fights to the rim, chin up above the garbage waters.

    To my window you flew, with your accordion wings stolen from the down-grates of shops which now lay eyes open. I heard the wings with the wind so fierce it not only flooded the subways but bent trees, severed them, trees amputated and flying the city sky and you took the backdraft and flew up to my balcony, my window, and I opened it, and let you in. Why?

    The marriage is bigger than the two participants.

    The marriage has no interest in wings or winds.

    The marriage exists separate like a meteorological system, or a garden, or an essay, or poetry. It is of you and from you and with you. But it does not know you. It lives on its oxygen.

    What is the secret?

    I can't tell you the secret.

    But I can tell you about the zydeco wings which came unexpectedly in the night, to my aerie, my upstairs lair, in the form of sweet kisses.

    Maybe kisses know more than rings.

    And so, my love, you let yourself be vulnerable in my arms.

    I did not say the word: repossession. Though I had said it before. My heart said it, inside me, though.

    The night was a bitter June. Cold enough for winter coats and the subway riders lined up for the buses, due to the flooded station.

    In the tree laden sky, where the elms and oaks flew unscheduled, you let yourself be vulnerable, love, you let yourself come to the bed, wingless.

    The tender tin and sheet metal wings lay aside, the zydeco aileron tune dimmed a bit, and you came close, almost amputated and exposed.

    Gracias, mi amor.

    The marriage knows nothing about the marriage.

    On the cold rain nights, it's all zydeco and grace.

    (Painting by Susan)
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