I saw the measure of my love
when I awoke with anxious heart
from dreaming that she laughed in scorn
and turned away with mocking smirk
inviting me to leave her be
while friends surround her, far too cool,
and I am almost on my knees.
Then when I came to write this poem,
unknown still in early morning hour
in the sad lobby of the Red Roof Inn,
I read one by Campbell McGrath
in which he sat in anxious wait
for her oncology results;
he wrote of years of life together,
and in the end received he news
that she would be OK.
I felt a leap of brief relief,
as if Marika had lain there
and I had worried for her fate.
Yet in the bright, flat mundane light,
when tasks abound and girls walk by,
it’s easy to ignore what’s felt
beneath the glitter of the day
— that I am her and she is me;
these are the bounds of life.
Martin Ahrens 