You Should Be So Lucky
If you were my husband, I’d brush
each moment of illusion off the bed
like a housemaid with a broom.
Let no ocean begin to sound unless
you and I were already warm inside
our hotel room drinking wine and showing
our vulnerable affections.
If you were my husband, I’d treat you fragile
as the ten feet of space between vehicles
rushing 75 on the highway because the universe
is in that space,
can change from exotic to dead in a second.
Let no delta Blues pluck a chord unless
the close crop of your dark hair lit up
my features like an afternoon walk of consolation
and counting stars we know are there
but can not see.
If you were my husband, I’d name you honey.
It would be my chief pleasure to lie in your arms
and swirl my fingers around in your chest hair
while you spoke about an ex you thought you loved
yet deceived you and I would despise her
and everything she is and I would ask you:
want me to kick her ass?
Which would make you smile and kiss the top
of my burning head and shake me with your bear paws.
If you were my husband, I would love you
with a fresh start every second of every day
and just to increase upon our luck, I would promise
never to deceive you and I would get a sheet of paper
notarized which read: She will always remain pretty.
Then you wouldn’t have to worry about me getting fat
or old or frumpy even after having twelve children
that all looked like you.
If you were my husband, this nest of anxiety
would disappear and I could stuff all my sadness
back into the suitcase of my heart.
Like all great marriages that last beyond the grave
we will be lost to the world but not each other,
surrounded by fragments of light and star,
the shape and color of your eyes.
When people ask me: so why aren’t you two married yet?
I gesture with my middle finger that we are.
If you were my husband, things would be easier.
I wouldn’t have to kill other women with my looks
or defend the great institution that we are going to become.
I wouldn’t have to feel like I work very hard
taming your thoughts- that great deal of poetry
that keeps falling out of your head. Things would
be like a sentimental love story and I the heroine
blowing kisses on your nipples and pressing
the little gold weight of my body against yours.
Ending where you begin, shapeless,
nestled in the fur of your body, I
cannot find my skin.
Why ask you where I am.
Over the park, birds string-lace
from limb to limb.
There are instances I find my hands,
rare occasions my voice cries
out from a throat,
I thought was yours.
Lisa Zaran is a poet, essayist and author of six collections including The Blondes Lay Content and the sometimes girl, the latter of which was the focus of a year long translation course in Germany. She is the founder and editor of the online poetry journal Contemporary American Voices .