Whenever I talk, my wife falls asleep,
So, now, when she can't sleep, I talk.
It's like magic.
Say she hasn't had a good night's sleep in a week,
feels exhausted, and lies down early
in the evening,
but begins to toss and turn.
I just lie down beside her,
prop my head up in one hand and say,
"You know, I've been thinking,"
Immediately she calms down,
finds a fetal posture,
and tucks her head under my arm.
I know she lies dispersed, though in one body,
claimed by rabble cares and the need to sleep.
"Will you stay?" she asks.
"I'm right here," I answer.
"Now, what were you saying?" she wonders, and so I talk.
"It isn't that lovers always meet in a garden,"
and already her eyes
get that dizzy look, like she can't focus.
"Go ahead," I tell her, "close your eyes."
"OK," she says,"but keep talking." And so I do.
"It isn't that lovers always speak
together in a house by the sea, or in a room
with shadows of leaves and branches
on the wall and ceiling.
It's that such places emerge
out of the listening
their speaking to each other engenders.
I mean, maybe . . ."
And she sighs. Her breathing begins to slow.
And I remember something I heard somewhere:
Every so many breaths, a sign.
Every so many sighs, sleep.Or was it:
Every so many sighs, death?I go on talking, now stroking her head,
pushing her hair back from her forehead,
clearing her bright brow,
and listening for her next sigh.
"Maybe the face-to-face true lovers enact
manifests a prior coincidence
of heaven and earth, say, or body and soul,
equal opposites exchanging
and combining properties in perpetual transformation:
shore and not shore, sea and sky,
room and a world, the gazer and the gazed upon."
Little twitches run the length of her, beginning
with her arms, then her legs, then her feet, as though
tensions were being fired from her body.
She mumbles the beginning of a word.
I go on talking.
"Maybe the union of lovers is an instance
of a primary simultaneity, timeless,
from which arises the various shapes of Time and duration:
arrival, departure, waiting, resuming,
fountain, terrace, path, an eave.
And maybe any world is born, is offspring,
of the liaison between
God and Mind,
Mind and Mind's source."
I count her second sigh, lower, longer.
"Or maybe God says
I love you! and the whole
universe, consciousness included, is a shape
of that pronouncement.
Or maybe there's no
You in that,
but only
I love! ringing,
engendering all of space, every quadrant
an expression of God's first nature:
I love!Or maybe a
Youarises as echo, the counter-ringing,
to the sovereign
I love!and we're the
You to the Source's
I,
the second person to God's first personhood.
Then, to surrender any sense of an
Iis to feel our true condition, a
Youbefore God, and to be seen.
Being seen: the crowning experience
and mystery of a
You.
Maybe, too often, we mistake
the guest for the host,
confusing the
I and the
You. And yet, maybe
out of that confusion more worlds arise."
By now, she's barely listening, if at all.
I lower my voice and go on rambling,
afraid she'll wake if I stop too soon.
"Maybe love for God amounts
to the Beloved returning
the Lover's gaze.
And out of that look and looking back,
all of our notions
of space, home, distance,
beginning, end, recurrence,
death, debt, fruition, number, weight
emerge; all are issue
of that meeting between
lover and lover, our souls' intercourse
with what it loves."
By now her jaw has gone slack, her fingers loose
where earlier they were clenching the edge of the blanket,
and I'm almost whispering.
"Maybe it's true, what sages have said,
I don't know if I'm remembering it right.
Something about moving up a ladder of love.
Maybe we learn
to love a person, say, first as object,
and then as presence, and then as essence,
and then as disclosure of the divine,
or maybe all at the same time,
or discovering over time
each deeper aspect to be true.
And maybe our seeing it in another
proves that face inside ourselves.
Oh, I don't know. You sleep now."
And then I stop talking, kiss her forehead,
and wait a minute
before leaving the bed and closing
the door behind me.
Close the door. Come lie down.
There's no ocean out there not already in you.What a narrow residence,
the lifetime of her eyes.