Liz Fink-Davenport
I found my love in three quarter time
I found my love in the back room at the bookstore where no one goes because it smells how I like it best
I found my love tucked under a damp pillow
I found my love in the change falling from a hole in a pocket; like a waterfall
I found my love in the backseat of a taxi; unnoticed
I found my love in dust motes dancing in afternoon sunlight right above his eyelashes
I found my love in tears on another's cheek
I found my love in the last sips of coffee in the cold cup
I found my love forgotten
I found my love in proud pearls on a Sunday
I found my love in that smile
In those eyes
In that warm hand; in a soft fist with calluses
In that curled lip
In that hip
In that scar
And along this dark path.
Never. Never did I find my love in spite. In heartache. In MY tears. In pain. In my ribs being wrenched like a door I gave no access to...the key forced...the hinges pulled with a screech. No. I found no love there. In the tangled brambles of a road too long traversed.
I found my love in a sunrise over a misted pond with eggs being cooked and jazz being played and a hand so easy on my low back to guide me to a lap waiting for my weight. I found my love
In three quarter time
No, I lied, I found it in
Nina Simone and How Do You Like Your Eggs. Yes. And a bookstore. The forgotten back room.
