The Me Poem

This poem will be about me.
First person.
Selfish.
What I want.
What I don’t.
Here is an introduction—
Hello. I’m DeMaris
and I have everything…almost.
The thing I don’t have is love,
which is the only thing I want.
Love.
Tenderness.
Love and tenderness mixed together
would be almost perfect.
Almost more than I could stand.
Oh, and time.
Time with the loved-one.
The love and tenderness
are meaningless
if there is no warm flesh
to put my arms around.
I need love to be present.
I need love to be priority.
So many people love me the right way:
family, friends.
Their love is correct, wholesome.
But the love I don’t have—
the love I want, is specific,
romantic, reciprocal.
Love is offered to me all the time,
but it’s the wrong love
by the wrong people.
I kick it away.
I run.
It’s not what I want.
I reject it.
Unwanted love expands my emptiness.
Chokes me.
Last week
the wrong man wrote me a sad song
which was beautiful
and moved me to tears,
and another wrong man sent me a book
called “Humanimal”
because he knew
I was into self-examination.
And just yesterday
Mr. Still Wrong
offered the right thing.
(the wrong men are always so creative)
He wanted us to cook something new
in the crock pot—mine or his,
it didn’t matter where.
And he proposed we do something fun
in the hours we waited.
Like the others
he’s done his homework.
He thinks he knows how to woo me
so he suggested we hike my favorite trail
while our dinner simmered away—
and then, get this—
he wanted us to try new wines.
New red wines.
Wines, plural.
How fucking goddamn romantic.
But there is not a single cell in my body
that wants to make love to him.
Or fuck him.
Or him.
Or him.
Not a single tingle of excitement
or desire.
And all my self-examination
has led me to believe
that it doesn’t really matter
that there are a zillion men
who match my criteria—
all the boxes checked—
all of them taller
smarter
stronger,
the list isn’t that long.
In fact, that’s the list.
Three things that must be.
Everything else is chemistry
and respect
and an infinite list of must-nots—
the turnoffs—
the non-negotiables—
the first of which
is a wardrobe drenched in sports logos
and baseball caps and a preference
for the indoors
which tells me absolutely everything
I need to know.
And yes,
I am that black and white
and yes,
I am that inflexible
and yes,
I am IMPOSSIBLE
to love
from afar
which is where I am
and where I will remain
until love shows up, bravely,
at my goddamn door.

 

 

 

 

DeMaris
9-5-19

“Her Room” Andrew Wyeth, 1963

Published by demarisgaunt

I currently live in Greenwood, Indiana. I love to listen to music, books on CD, podcasts or NPR as I work in my studio.  My favorite artists are Andrew Wyeth and Edward Hopper. I love poetry, but only the good stuff that isn’t so abstract I can’t understand it. Abstraction better lends itself to visual art, I think. Stephen Dunn is my favorite poet. He’s said just about anything that can be said about the inner workings of the heart and mind. My favorite novel is Atonement by Ian McEwan. My all time favorite band is The Cure. I love science, and anything that relates to how the mind works. I don’t believe in the supernatural. If I could meet anyone in the world, it would be Richard Dawkins or Steven Pinker. If you don’t buy my art or read my poetry, buy one of their books. It will enrich if not change your life.  My favorite things to do are hiking, kayaking and camping. My favorite food is so common, I’ll keep you in suspense (It starts with a P). I prefer chocolate to vanilla. Green is my favorite color. I have an aversion to planning or scheduling of any kind, and I live for spontaneous adventures! Telephone conversations make me anxious, and I avoid them at almost all cost. I had a happy childhood. I’m having a pretty fantastic adulthood. I have every intention of seeing my 100th birthday, after which I will happily relinquish my guts to the future of medicine. Cheers! ~DeMaris

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