into roped-off spaces of ancient digs
following a man with a machine gun into the shadows.
He said he knew then that he loved me;
why else would he have followed a wild-child of a beautiful mess
like me into the dark unknown of catacombs
half way around the world from
where he first read about them in books
dreamed of a brown-eyed girl.
But what did he know of love.
I followed him a few months later
a sparkling diamond on my ring finger
back to his old stomping grounds
promised I did and I do and I would.
But what did I know of vows.
I birthed him two babies
and we built a life and planted a garden
of trust and tears and laughter
in our backyard and living room,
found out what sickness and worse
and pockets of poorer meant.
Looked at each other, hands on hips,
from across the room some nights
before finally giving in,
melting into each other's arms
what we knew of love.
I've stained his shirt with soft gray smudges of eyeliner
and hot tears more days than not now
in these four weeks and counting
since the baby in my womb traded
breathing amniotic fluid for angel air
And we've folded up into conversation
of babies gone
and sleeping soundly in the next room
of heavenly lights
and earthly darkness
of questions pleaded into the night
and answers given by morning sun
of a rugged tree where He was nailed
and an empty tomb where He was risen
Realizing exactly what we now know of love
and still also have yet to grasp.
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