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The soul recognizes the voice
from the same mouth
whose kisses set it on fire
a blue fire, profound
and aware of its need
to be contained, to belong
where its warmth and its light
are disciplined and familiar,
like a native tongue
the words cradled in whose arms
are the natural choice
to express pleasure
to release pain
to talk the spirit’s way
through tears and restless sleep,
and for whom the eloquence
of love pays homage
whenever it can.

Even the untamed mare
who communes everyday with
the wild’s cruel beauty
dreams in repose of
a domesticated heart
and refuses to spend eternity
facing cold, rainy nights alone.
Even as a soldier of fortune
raking in my winnings from
all the ways that the road
can twist and turn,
or even when in command of reason
and numbering among those
who wield the pen that
writes history,
I ache for something more
than riding the wind and
chasing down each dawn.

I’d rather be your wife.
Mother of your children.
The speed of my constant evolution
through the optic fibers of chance
is not my crown;
your love is.
I’d rather raise a family with you
than bring empires to their knees.
The shiny medals on my chest
cannot compete with the fireflies
on our backyard at twilight.
I’d rather feel your heart
beating next to me,
in our bed, every night.

I want to paint our private space
with all the grace inside of me
and wait for you to come home
so I can put my arms around
the life we build together,
the unpredictable weather
rustling my skirts while
our sanctuary remains untouched.
And within that pause I will
take all the time in the world
to love you,
and whisper in your ear that
nothing else matters
but being with you.

So call me yours.
Give me your last name
and the better half of the yoke
on your shoulders.
Our fort shall shut out
everything else.

“Megan Fox Beach Wedding”
from Barcroft Media