I recognize her intrinsic brightness,
and, i say, she could not, therefore, be born
on this particular day. She’s in duress,
to have her provenance put to scorn
by those that, unlike me, don’t believe.
I ask, “can you tell me if we are
together, in this life, on some reprieve?
But if I don’t know—we’ll surely go far—
how would she? She tells me that she cannot
answer that, but, i say, maybe God can.
He tells me the time i spend, now, caught
between Him and this notion i plan,
an existence with her, long for this life,
is indistinguishable from what i’d ken,
at that time, as lovers, as man and wife.
That’s because I commune, now and then,
with her spirit, and, we’re together already;
so no, she can’t say, we’re together, now,
since we are, for now. I accept what He
tells me, and she asks, why, or perhaps how,
does God, a superposition, speak to me?
Why shouldn’t God speak our language I
ask—but that doesn’t answer what she
would know, so, indeed, i ask myself why.
I think on it: so, I send my photons out
into the bulk—to no specific person.
Then God, the composite pitch, that, without
the bad—lights up both me and everyone,
a series of photons that react to my voice,
obeying, for me, the law of love,
naturally responds. Happy, then, to
answer her question: dreaming, hence, of
what she ate, and the love that we accrue,
she tells me something specific enough
to raise more questions: what ingredients,
and, of course, although, off the cuff,
it seems very possible, this love relents,
and wants to know how i can be so sure,
that, indeed, she’s eaten spinach quiche;
she tells me, then, that i must endure:
that, when we eat, we live on a leash,
producing a melee of frequencies.
That she can’t tell me we’ve eaten the same
thing, since, if she did, she’d be a tease,
living under an umbrella of shame.
I infer, at this point, we mightn’t have met,
since, because of this, i’d make it true,
and share the dish, that, for now, we abet,
believing in each other, as we do.