After Opening

The New York Times

I Wonder How to Write a Poem about Love

Camille T. Dungy

To love like God can love, sometimes.

Before the kettle boils to a whistle, quiet. Quiet

that is lost on me, waiting as I am

for an alarm. The sort of things I notice:

the bay over redbud blossoms, mountains

over magnolia blooms. There is always something

starting somewhere, and I have lost ambition

to look into the details. Shame fits comfortably

as my best skirt, and what can I do

but walk around in that habit? Turn the page.

Turn another page. This was meant to be

about love. Now there is nothing left but this.