A Romanticist’s Dilemma

We hear it as children –
Our mother figures asking our sister figures
whenever they meet any man,

“Oh, does he have a job?
How long til ya married?
How many grandchildren are you gonna give ya motha?
Oh, honey,
booby,
how big is his

paycheck?”

But I didn’t have anyone to ask me those questions
so now I ask the questions:

Does he move you like a song?
Do you look at him like a piece of art with a reverence for the human spirit and gasp,
“Something created that?”?
Does he fill your mind like that line of impossible prose
too beautiful to write down or ever share
so you keep it locked up in your head
or around your neck
in that locket he gave you for your sixteenth birthday
that became too heavy
and tarnished with
memories and false premises
so you had to take it off
and now
you don’t even really remember what it looks like?

I’m a poet,
I’m a writer,
so it only seems natural
that my list of romanticisms
become a poem
or a novel
or my next
mistake.

Is it the curse of my father I’ve been looking for someone to save?

Is someone going to save me?
Is someone going to save me?
Is someone going to save me
from this laundry list –
my standards for love that have me doubled over,
chained,
tortured
by my own impulses?
My attraction to alcoholics,
addicts,
lost spirits?

The wine is sweet when you don’t know what you’re drinking.

I’m drunk on emotion and I’ll savor every last drop.

Is someone going to save me?

I’m a poet,
I’m a writer,
so it only seems natural

and I find it cathartic
to be grabbed by the waist
and pulled into the lips of a man who has never tasted serenity,
emotional sobriety –
Their taste is all to familiar to me;
I fall into them like a trap.
Gets me every time.

Is someone going to save me?
I’m drunk on emotion and I savor
every
last
drop.

EJZ 04.23.2015

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6 thoughts on “A Romanticist’s Dilemma

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