A MUD DANCE DIALOGUE

Love Poem Series #10. This is it. The last of the love poems. Is love most nearly itself when it ceases to matter? T. S. Eliot asked that in one of his poems. I’d say yes, and rush to hide.

 

A MUD DANCE DIALOGUE

 

How about we try for some joy?—From “In a Hotel Lobby, Near Midnight”, Luisa A. Igloria

 

Mud as fire extinguisher? Bloody overkill, I say.
Douse it with a spit of brandy and gin chaser,
and off to a cabin at the edge of the woods! Huh.

“How about we try some joy”? A blowhard’s line.
How about a walk in the woods, mud and all,
and answer old questions left unanswered:

Is love most nearly itself when it ceases to matter?
What is need that it remains unsatiated, unmet,
when lovers seek ardour to brim beyond fulfillment?

Ah, let’s slosh away in the mud where mud is,
and we might yet find a balm for this burning ember
we carry around like raw marks singed in our palms.

What joy is there where union is not communion?
What need is there for glowing embers flaming out
of buckets? I would rather we danced in this muck

of mud and find our freed fears become the dance,
our only dance, before the stroke of midnight,
before the convulsions of laughter turn to pain.

—Albert B. Casuga