Happiness: The Forbidden Subject

Is it because, longing for it,

so many have ripped up their husbands'

glossy photos, carried their wives'

suitcases to cars, everyone crying

as the Chevrolets and Volkswagens

and Renaults pulled out of driveways?

Because they trained so hard

to climb the pinnacles,

and when they arrived the air

was thinner than they'd imagined,

the views predictable? Because

they stood in gardens in the dark,

waiting for stars to fall

into their eyes, for new lovers

slimmer than the old,

with voices like the Adriatic

in calm weather? Is it because

they saw it at the ends

of black-and-white movies, too grainy

to be believed, but they believed,

and remembered Technicolor?

I tell you, we were among them.

So when we found it unexpectedly,

like the bed of four-leaf clover

under the dogwood,

we pronounced its name

with caution. We knew

the history of love,

had seen affection peel

like wallpaper

from our favorite rooms,

the motley patterns behind.

We are so pleased with ourselves,

each other, that we hug the luck

of our bodies every morning,

every night, our prayers

the same each time,

sweet words they'd shake

their heads at, sadly,

muttering, as we would

have muttered once,

of fools who think that life's

a valentine.

Structure

43 lines · 3 stanzas