Poem: Fading, Lasting
Soon after we married, I began the habit
of dropping on the dining table one-liner
love poems written in blue ink on colored cards,
before leaving for work.
You collected these cards in a cheap, chiseled box
of fragrant dark wood that later disappeared, drowned
in some moving cartons — or at least so we thought.
Then there was a long pause.
A decade later, we found the box on the floor
of our new home’s garage. The ink had faded, and
the handwriting seemed like it was someone else’s,
and there were fewer cards.
Worst of all, the lines were flimsier than before
–one of them even read “Je t’aimerai toujours.”
So this time, I publish my poems, ensuring
that nothing strange happens.
People will read my texts before they disappear.
I am like Joseph Smith, who showed his golden plates
to neighbors and cousins on a mountain before
the artifacts vanished.
I am not religious, but our love deserves
this extra precaution.
