This is not what I wanted
This is not it at all.
There was to be a cool day
And a long drive to a waterfall
That fell gently against the cliffs
And laughter at the baby goats that came our way.
That was all I wanted.
Conversation and music would have helped us
Exchange a few stray kisses
Indulge our senses
Engage in some offhand but skillful loving.
Then we’d hit the city again
And all would be pleasantly forgotten
And nothing would be remembered
Except in a dinner conversation
and to entertain
those lovers in distant countries.
And it would begin again.
Maybe with somebody else.
Or maybe on another highway.
But this, this is not what I wanted
O this is not it at all.
The fear of tomorrow
The longing for yesterdays
The impotence of today
The responsibility of being a lover, an almost wife.
The vulnerability of being
that awful cauchemar –
A woman in love.
O no, that was not to have happened.
That was not it at all.
Why talk of love when lust can be had?
So easily and so painlessly? Almost effortlessly?
And that’s why it happens.
Even when you only watch French movies
And know how love can be had
Without the loss of a life.
The universe with its wicked humour
Pushes you off the cliff
Makes you shatter against the waterfall
Takes away your innocence and gaiety
Till you have nothing in common with baby goats
Unless they died
stunned and helpless and bleeding
Under a speeding car
On a serpentine highway.