by: Frank Bidart
(Dante, Vita Nuova)
To all those driven berserk or humanized by love
this is offered, for I need help
deciphering my dream.
When we love our lord is LOVE.
When I recall that at the fourth hour
of the night, watched by shining stars,
LOVE at last became incarnate,
the memory is horror.
In his hands smiling LOVE held my burning
heart, and in his arms, the body whose greeting
pierces my soul, now wrapped in bloodred, sleeping.
He made him wake. He ordered him to eat
my heart. He ate my burning heart. He ate it
submissively, as if afraid as LOVE wept.
This is going to be a weekend of love for my daughter, She is going to the junior prom with her boyfriend. They have been planning for this weekend for a couple of months now. Picking out dresses and tuxes. Corsages and boutonnieres. Making dinner reservations. Alterations and fittings. As I type these words, my daughter is having her nails manicured and painted. Tomorrow, her cousin is coming over to help her with her makeup and hair.
Young love is a wonder, so full of hope and innocence. Of course, with young love also comes the specter of possible heartbreak. Actually, opening your heart to love at any age opens the door to heartbreak. That's just part of the whole process of making yourself vulnerable to another person.
I have no wisdom for my daughter. I'm still a beginner at this love stuff myself. Every day with my wife is new, a piece of polished glass in my palm, sparking sunlight. Sometimes, the polished glass can still cut your skin, make you bleed.
Saint Marty hopes and prays his daughter has lots of polished glass moments this weekend.