Oneself

 Oneself

I never married another poet,

though I married two writers –

and indeed, my first husband

(who was not a writer) 

once wrote a poem, 

and so did my third, just once. 

Guess you can’t be married 

to a poet without something, 

however unusual, rubbing off.

But mostly how strange 

it was, how uncanny – 

to be in such close

and intimate relationship

– for with each there was

a sharing of thoughts,

confidences, and the way

one comes to know another 

when living so near, so

together in the same space;

almost as if becoming one

with the other person, the spouse 

(as we’re taught in Romance) – 

yet there’s a part of one’s life, 

one’s self, that can never quite 

be understood except by another

poet: that’s simply the nature

of things and can’t be helped.

All the other poets

understand completely – no need

even for it ever to be said:

so well we all know, and know

that we know. Even if one hates 

their ethics, their politics, their 

hangers-on, even if one despises 

their disgusting or puerile or 

decorative verse. Even then.

My husbands understood me

more or less well. Until they

didn’t, or died, whichever came first. 

Not uncommon, I suppose. 

Except there was just this one 

aspect they could never quite grasp 

though they tried. And it’s the core.... 

But I don’t think I’d like

to be married to another poet

and anyway I’m never

likely to be, now. As for

the lovers, some never even knew

I had poetry. (Though that was

early days – and lesser lovers.)

Well, many of my friends are poets.

Or artists, who understand too.

And there’s the me inside me

after all, understanding perfectly.

Submitted to Weekly Scribblings #72 at Poets and Storytellers United, where Magaly invites us to use any or all of the words unusual, uncommon, uncanny.