Desi's drawing of my back
My beautiful daughter, Desiree Wade, created this gorgeous art.

When I can’t sleep, because I have to teach a four hour class today, and why would I sleep when I could stay up worrying all night that I might not sleep, I finally give up and write silly love poems. I imagine this will be included in So Speak the Stars, a collection of love poems I’m working on, a tribute to the great love of my life. I have quite a caboodle of them now. They all say the same thing. I became a writer because of this person. I mean I always wrote, but I started getting good at it by trying to say I love you in a way that captured what was actually in my heart. I still haven’t come close, but I’ve sold some books now, so that’s cool.

I wrote this one in response to the weird phenomenon that has been happening (phenomenon is too big a word for this, but whatever) where strangers send me love letters. I think I may have been hacked by the “send people you don’t know love letters” hackers. Maybe they’d ask me for my bank account number if I responded. I don’t know. But anyway, one of them persisted for weeks and finally crowned his flurry of unanswered love letters with a marriage proposal, after which I blocked him. Last night, I wanted to write something because I couldn’t sleep, and my little brain said, “Why don’t you write that dude who asked you to marry him a letter?” So I did.

I’ve been having a revelation lately. I’ve had just about everything a human being can ever have. And nothing, nothing has ever made my life feel like pure magic except for love. Love is where it’s at. Love is the only true treasure. Really, it’s the only thing I want. And I hope that everything I do, say, and think somehow plays into the magic of love.

Last night, I had the joy of sitting next to Karen Joy Fowler at dinner. We talked about how publication doesn’t change your life in any real way, about how you are just the same old you on the other side. I thought I felt that way because I wasn’t a big writer, but Karen is, and she feels that way too. You would think that publishing books and having events that make you the star of the show would make you happy, but it doesn’t, not unless you do it from a place of love. If I go to an event worried about how many people will show up, and if I’ll do a good job, and how many books I’ll sell, it’s about as fun as cleaning toilets used to be when I was a maid. But if I go, and I think, “I don’t care how many people show up. If one person shows up, I’m going to do everything I can to give him or her the love in my heart,” the event is pure magic.

But I digress. This one goes out to the one I love.


I could say my heart

belongs to someone else,

but that would be a half truth, at best.

A quarter truth. A tenth truth. Here

is the whole shebang: Both hemispheres

of my brain also belong to him

as well as my torso, my toenails,

and the prickly bumps on my kneecaps.

My hair follicles are in love.

If you study my fingerprints

under a blue light supplied

by a medium who specializes

in languages spoken mostly

by dead men, you will see

that the whorls spell my beloved’s

name in ten forgotten alphabets.

When I went to the dentist, he asked me

if I had noticed my teeth were buzzing,

and if I had, did I realize

they were humming

my beloved’s favorite song?

My doctor worried when she saw

that my entrails had twisted themselves

into a reasonable facsimile

of the date of his birth. Twice,

my waxer has asked me to please stop

tweezing my eyebrows to replicate

his smile. But I’m not. They just grow

that way. Every cell in my body bends

in his direction. If I were a map,

I’d be a boring one. Of course

every road would end with him.

You’ve heard that one before. And yes,

every river would run into his ocean.

He would be the guru sitting

on the snowy peak

of every single mountain.

The moose in the forests

would constantly bellow

his name. At the heart

of each pyramid, you would find

a mummy, and when you opened

its coffin, a pharaoh him would sit up.

You’d be besotted instantly. A thousand

bucks says you’d love him too, on sight.

Do you get me? I’m a hopeless case,

a goner. Do not resuscitate. It’s done.

I’m his. There is no going back, not when

the bumps of my spine mimic his laugh in braille.

When my therapist asked me why, I said:

“He drives the darkness from my bones.

He makes me walk on water.”





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