by Greg Moglia
Our love is made in the dark It works, since at this age what is there to see
In our history it comes after her breast cancer Yet, when she’s near, no change in my excitement
Still, there’s a tension with seeing and being seen
As my helper and driver to cataract surgery she looks on as I’m asked to strip to the waist
Chest out in wrestler fashion I say to my love What do you think?
We both laugh at the absurdity of the truth The old man trying to show off And with our laughter the op nurse comes by says with a smile What’s going on here?
As I’m led away I sense myself as object Something in our loving in the dark
allowed us to join as mystery I think of children at play - one hid beneath the covers
The other at wonder at the lump under the sheets With the discovery of only a body below
relief at the exposure but something lost and I come to understand that my pleasure in our love
rests upon obligation insistence devotion
When the nurse asks with her smile to quiet down
I sense that the deepest happiness has a glow to it