If I’d have married Anna
that earthquake summer in Savannah
because I felt I could understand her,
we, both transplanted Marylanders –
her from R-Town, I, the Manor
and both strangers-in-strange-landers.
and me, a one man want ad –
had I been a better man, I
maybe might have married Anna
In an earthquake. In Savannah.
I’d have been a man of Golden Islands
Square of eye, devoid of guile and
unassuming in my style,
injudicious in my silence.
The menace lurking in my myelin.
A southland wand’rin’ migrant,
a peripatetic mendicant
scrambling to stand on the shoulders of giants
had my heart only not bled so violent.
In the golden summer’s wildness, of the islands.
But choice’s fingers, sly and dextrous
unknotted passion once infectious.
As East Coast turned to West Coast,
sleepless nights and whore’s breakfasts
with a method actress and a snapperoo from Texas
for love, I clung ambitious –
not that I ever really found it
and as if I’d recognize it! Like I did with a boys heart
in a man’s carapace, in the theme from a summer place.
the theme that made that earthquake rumble reckless.
And earthquakes change the landscape,
the nexus will relocate until
opportunity makes strange bedmates
and gives you backaches, mandates, band-aids
truncating vital essence lest it escape,
we sit on shelfs and shafts tectonic
But love is quantum, sub-atomic, bereft of logic,
tragicomic – It’s chemical, it’s chronic, subversive, supersonic
And “if onlys” only skulk in the short corridors before dawn.
“if onlys” pre-owned by men who didn’t marry Anna.