When I Think About a Woman's Heart

When a man loves a woman, he'll get in the car and buy her friend a pack of cigarettes
in the middle of the night.
He'll walk back in with the box rolled in the sleeve of his t-shirt.
Her friend will say "If he loves you, he'll buy me a pack of cigarettes."

Small familiarities, I never knew
why Zelda knew she'd have to quit her "chummying."
But now I do.

In the stillness of a look I captured
the watery sadness of your little self--
painful and aching and if you could you'd take my hand
and run like you did so unexpectedly that first time.
Puffed up and blown large and wild,
an insistent presence.

When a man loves a woman,
he'll look at her while she reads out loud,
his eyes the smoky intensity of cloves and birch bark,
the kind you tear, thin and soft, and see it roll.
Someone walks in and feels without knowing
they've interrupted.

Inclined toward masculinity, I didn't know
that making you feel sure
would make me doubt.
But she did.
I stopped as time swirled,
a soft pocket I hadn't been able to find
welcomed my little hand. I'd hold you there and pressing
take pressure away.

When a man loves a woman
he might watch her as she sleeps
and think "I could give her half my heart"
and not miss it.
She might wake up and think "what can I give to him today?"
and he wouldn't wonder how to get it.

Other eyes speculate
when a woman loves a man.
See what they want they won't have, a
powerless power, no choice to choose.
That's mostly what I think about
when I think about a woman's heart.
Walking on telephone wires, the physics of dance
balancing the birthday gift sunshine and the mercy of the storm.