KENDEL HIPPOLYTE
Love dissolves all
Love dissolves all – slights, resentments, great historical injustices –
in the salt sea of itself.
It swallows improbabilities for its daily sustenance.
Love flourishes most in rank impossibilities, its flowers dare you.
Its original seed is a shape and colour that cannot be.
Love does not negotiate with you, holds out no wistful hope,
no exquisite petals of a happy ending, no lavender.
Sometimes its taste is aloe.
Then how and when and why is Love
Love?
No matter how dishwashing ordinary, kitchen cloth cliché the word ‘Love’ is,
how flapping-limp the sound of it becomes,
Love itself couldn’t care less.
It sips the arsenic of cynicism and leaves nectar in the glass.
Love trusts you to be defiant,
to naturally not recognize No, though you may notice it.
Love trusts you
to stumble-fall-crawl towards it
in the absence of any logical, incontrovertible evidence of its existence.
Love trusts you
to stand eventually in certainty, blind,
and walk
and find it.
Their voyaging
Love, as they grow old, reveals
it really had been love
guiding their hands into the shaping of small gestures:
she, soothing caramelised onion onto a slice of bread;
aligning the careful wedges of cheese, attentively;
offering the open sandwich into the reddening toaster oven;
lifting it out; placing it, morning-quiet,
on the table mat in front of him
he, lifting off the book that had dropped, covers upward,
splayed on the breast of the woman sleeping;
bookmarking the page; turning, till it clicks,
the knob of the bedside lamp; pausing a moment
to be sure to not wake her in the breath-held dimness
before returning to their wide-beamed wooden bed, waiting
to embark on the next passage of their voyaging
into the gentle dark