Viagra Says That Even A Mundane Moment Can Turn Romantic - Or IS That The Cialis Commercial I Saw Last Night While Watching Rachel Maddow?

Dirt is not a move or a sigh,

or having a heaving man between your thighs.

Dirt is knowing:

The scar below your left thigh,

the smell of your chest when you are angry,

the slight rise in your voice because I forgot to make you breakfast -

I've forgotten how to serve; only how to listen remains.

I breathe in your silence, fearing your words.

A couple is having sex in the other room - I can hear them.

Hear, or listen?

You once asked me, and I cried.

The night was bright: I could smell

the stars breath on glimmering leaves,

not quite yet dead, waiting for fall,

when our love fell apart like the glass they shatter at Jewish weddings.

Let's start afresh from the shards.

We could build each peice on top of the other,

with a jewel-maker's touch.

It is true, we will not have a glass,

but maybe we will have something just as beautiful -

a dove, or a swan - a sculpture that can not hold water,

and all from a single grain of sand:

That night when you looked into my eyes

and told me you supported abortion - well, not abortion, really,

but a woman's right to choose.

How romantic - almost as romantic as broken glass and starry night,

and all the other cliches I want to stuff into this non-poem,

as if it were a piece of pita, waiting for falafel:

Perhaps, if you taste my tehina, you will love me.

Perhaps you will get indigestion, and whisper my name angrily as you vomit.

It is enough to know your tongue has touched the letters of my name.