I'm not one to chalk things to fate.
The ecstasy of dice-shake roulette wheel
just holds more interest for me.
But you, Windy City Woman, showed up
with armloads of survivor song and
perfectly placed step ladder plateaus of
common ground, every sentence
helped me ascend.
You fire angel, Botticelli-faced word woman,
held an inferno in your belly.
I watch the flames bellow from your gut
to drip out wild honey slow
until the stage rippled, baptismal font
at our feet.
I wanted to dive in so badly,
merman your blood stream
until your bones became the white columns of
an ancient city.
Your ribcage became my Atlantis
your words the bottomless ocean that held it.
Most of your poems talk of falling,
of knee scrape anthems of
almost making it.
You talk of falling as if we
the majestic wings at your back.
Stretched to white-feathered infinity.
You spoke of asthma,
unable to breathe,
as if every molecule of oxygen
traffic-jammed the highway of your throat.
Every molecule fully aware it will leave your lungs
changed, forever altered,
transformed by your contact,
Like all of us.
No, I was never one to chalk anything up to fate.
I saw life as random shuffle but people like you
make me second guess that shit.
How can I not believe in God when
It sends angels from Chicago.
I'm glad we're friends,
I'm overjoyed that I get to watch you