Knock Knock

Where does love live?

tradition    history     poetry  

would say that love lives

in the heart. Yet…

how can such a tiny organ

hold all that love describes?

My arms encircle it, my back

is bent from carrying it,

my hunger is such that

I would consume it.

My feet have walked a ragged path

to pursue it and I am no more than

a hound dog on the trail of love’s

pungent scent. Let my fingers

unbraid it to stroke its silky tresses,

my ears and chest alert to

its throbbing drumbeat.

Love lives in our very sinews

twined with fear, with which

it can sometimes be confused.

The answer to who’s there

is love. Love waits at the door.

But not for long

before it barges in.