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Haiku for a Unicorn



You can see the summit but you can’t reach it
It’s the last piece of the puzzle but you just can’t make it fit
Doctor says you’re cured but you still feel the pain
Aspirations in the clouds but your hopes go down the drain

Howard Jones – No One Is To Blame

I’m in Mississippi.

It’s green here. Everything and everywhere. Trees buzz as if a thousand electric weed trimmers perch on their branches. Rain only falls like a river. Fleeting lightning dispels the night utterly. Thunder rolls, then booms, then cracks in the ear. The air is hot wetness.

I could have denied this experience, avoided the obvious consequential pain.

What if you found your matching unicorn? The one who compliments you the most? What if that discovery was the cruelest of revelations?

We both are missing the tip of the middle finger on our right hand, you see. She has the name of the street I grew up on, you see. She’s a writer, sees and paints the world in the same hues and tones as I. She’s scarred in the same places, aching for the same needs. She bleeds. She bleeds and bleeds from the same wounds, unwilling to deny their existence.

I wrote a haiku once.

What if love’s moment
Lasted but a single day
Would you not fear it?

It’s sickeningly romantic. A fool’s errand. I didn’t think it prophetic.

The population in the greater Sacramento region is over 2.5 million people. So many souls. It’s where I live. Surely my unicorn could be one of those. It should be. Love’s circumstances should be justly bound by laws set by romantic fate. But the only choice is to love or not love, fate only gives the opportunity. Why must it be this way? Why must my life be punctuated with painful ironies that heal as they rip me wide open?

May the southern white god curse the Internet.

I wonder if this is the only way I can tolerate such a connection. A coward’s unconscious strategy? The ancient guard of my heart gives no comforting counsel. The starving prisoner begs to be fed. The rationalist laughs judgmentally.

I am troubled.

“You know we will get burned,” I tell her. It’s too late for this warning. I’m already here. We kiss hard, like jaundiced vampires while sitting on her back porch as the cicadas sing. She nods, her tiger’s eye colored stare acknowledging what is already beyond the event horizon. We lie to ourselves that living in the present will postpone the inevitable. We call it crazy, and then agree to stop calling it that. Then we call it crazy again. Then any remaining rationales strip away with our clothes. Now a different fire burns, burns, burns as our we lay our defenseless hearts on the bed.

She has words tattooed on inside of her left forearm.

The ink,
The page,
The poem

The words lay over and around older scars carved into her skin. I understand.

We are moored to different lands by children we adore. We smile anyway until bittersweet tears fall at the cosmic irony of it all. A few days are left to wake up next to each other.

I have to stop writing this. I have to go lay my head in her lap.

Photo credit: owlana/Flickr
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