by John Grey
Can't love while the storm is raging.
Thunder's like tanks rolling over the horizon.
Lightning takes pot shots from behind the sky.
Love is on the bed, not under it.
Can't feel good in the middle of something
when our nerves are so anxious for it to end.
The heart can't do double duty.
No floating in its own nectar
when it's pounding against the rib cage,
leaping into the throat.
We are never farther apart
than when we huddle together in the parlor
while the enemy gathers overhead.
I whisper your name,
give your hiding place away.