How Hard is It to Write a Love Song
Last night a sparrow flew into my house,
crashed against the skylight and died:
I want to write a love song.
Poppy seed cake on china plate,
tea like auburn gold, the New York Times
open on the table, black with news,
and the man I still love with me.
The newspaper says in Conakry a man is
sticking his Kalashnikov into a woman. Now
he’s pulling the trigger.
Hummingbirds zip through the garden.
My lover slowly rocks in the hammock,
a spy novel on his stomach.
I flip a page and a Nigerian soldier
shoots a man because he’s parked badly,
and takes the dead man’s hat.
The bougainvillea has burst into pinks and reds,
the colors of Kabul’s sidewalks after a suicide attack.
The child next door squeals with laughter.
How hard is it to write a love song?
A little in-the-moment swim,
a bit of Bach—perhaps.