For my friend on the occasion of his wedding.
No eye for art, you said,
and turned toward Hunger,
livid color leaving you cold,
neither keen, nor compelling,
not enough, not when you already
know how marble folds, how stone
creases, warms under your touch.
She only imagines herself a statue,
forgetting granite needs no control
to remain unmoving, unmoved,
her skillful deliberation
a lie into which you have
a lifetime of insight.
You have seen the art in her intention,
in the way she unthreads the world with
her questions; you know how bright
the recklessness in her chest, how
her smile alights in private, when
all eyes have turned from her
save yours.
Yours:
eyes well-trained in appreciation
for the art of her meticulousness,
the elegance of her restraint,
the beauty of her abandon, and
the wonder of a love grown
in secret, unveiled today.