I wonder if it’s like throwing a poem out into the world to bumble between the frost-flowered gloves of winter-eyed readers unsheathing their red pens?
When you said yes to him, was it like that slip of the hand that lets the book in your heart shatter into pages in the clouds, dripping butterfly honey from sun to scrawled sidewalk where the chalk critics can warp your words into dry-throated hopscotch grids? Was it like writing “the end” before the last page?
I wonder, when I finally say yes, if it will hurt like the clap of a thousand doors turning their backs so only one tunnel lies ahead, the longest path illuminated only by the whispers of typewriters and the quills of my mothers and grandmothers in history behind – for love was never simple; getting the words and commas right is an art not to be perfected in the century of a single writer, especially not a wet-winged one just out of her cocoon, searching the grass blades for a line of verse to dry her tears aflutter
So I wonder if I say yes – when the stars sigh on my keyboard – if it will be light enough to decipher a first chapter?
So I wonder if I can ever publish the novel of my life, and if fine literature can still have a happy ending?
Image credits in order of appearance:
By Anderson Honeydew, New-York – Edited from file http://memory.loc.gov/master/pnp/cph/3g00000/3g06000/3g06000/3g06020u.tif, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=981330