It’s the weirdest thing,
to be in love with a woman.
Nothing else matters.
Even that campy hate scorn is
rick rack on a little black dress —
you kidding me?
Your woman is a body of miracle fiber,
a tote accommodating
a change of clothes and good shampoo,
a heated embrace, an epicenter
a little sun next to you
preparing you for your dangerous salvation.
You have to find a way
and a sherpa anxious to
shake out, lean over,
anchor raw minerals
on the four directions,
the four elements,
the nonrefundable missteps.
God is whatever makes us better.
Who’s seen Her, besides
and ten million mothers.
Do they agree how shining her hair is
or that her voice is the unified theory
of everything arranged for strings?
The idea is to be led to something
that is not you.
If it is the solar system in your arms,
pinging you, well, that works.
®2015. Sarah Sarai, Ping-Pong, Literary Journal of the Henry Miller Library, 2014.