Poem: Where Love Becomes Our End Times and We Choose That Dance Anyway

Where Love Becomes Our End Times and We Choose That Dance Anyway

By Sarah Frances Moran
QuailBellMagazine.com

for Pulse

We aren’t supposed
to use love
in a poem,

piled in every
corner.
the pink sheep,
in every corner

It is stacked with
beating hearts
all pump and spit
and fire.

Stack the love,
open the door
and imagine,
imagine the strobe lights
and staccato.

Imagine the break
of lightning and difference.
All of the desire that leaves and
waits like the thinning of
understanding.

We break silence
and the glass splatters.
The rivers and lakes overflow.
Swell, with those hearts
still beating at the bottoms.

Beating and pulsing and
boiling over with love…
love, love, love that,
that thing that cannot break,
love,
that thing that
cannot be wrong.

Don’t send me your words
riddled with that word
love…

Don’t tell me that all of this
has all been done because
of
love…

Sticky and wet, with death, the lessons
we reap and the waters where
we go to drown…
for love…

We hear the rip and think
it’s music…
We feel the cut and move
bodies faster…

We think the heat is eternal
and the water deeper than Heaven,

but it’s love we’re dancing for.
​

#Unreal #Poem #Pulse #LGBTQ+ #Strong #Orlando #KeepingDancing #SameLove

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