Let Love Poem by Deborah DeNicola

There is but one word—again. -Miroslav Holub


In rooms of perfumed tapers, I've gluttoned on love.
Loved inside up and downside out. And loved again. Loved

the unavailable, the ambivalent... Have sworn
no more no more no more no more.

And the dreamy remtide of desire with its rudimentary swells,
its salve and ebb, its poxy crevices and desiccation—

the bottomless water-gazing, that grazing mounting the dunes,
the cresting run-off of the heart

has wracked this deciduous body with loss, so over and over
so loving now through outbacked arteries just might be

the light-emitting-diode-version-of-myself,
stabilized, simonized, decelibatized

by letting go—
Let go—Let love!

Without reciprocity. Without skittish kisses or
expensive mosts, or certificates of fantastic suffering.

Without apotropaic ovations, the muttered stone-rubbing
spell, enchantment and collapse,

(mea culpa, mea ultima culpa...)
Without withs and without withouts—

And God help us, without pre—s and posts, no
syntaxable legalese please—just the surge

of cheekbone and chi, glitter skin and gypsy hips,
glutes and tongue... flex and ascension

under sheeted fury.
And whatever else, and why not?

When nothing comes close! When we live
to love, love to love,

so wherefore, therefore,
whyever not?