Right Here.

by Christopher Anthony Leibow

for Linnea

I have wandered in and out of burning cities with crumbling streets named after you.  Everywhere I went you were not. I looked for you in the tattered books of poets, among the writers of operas and among the caravans of the Gypsies.   I frequented clairvoyants and fortune tellers.  They claimed to speak in your name. I did the rituals they told me would bring you to me.  But there you were not. I went to the taverns drank till drunk and smoked opium in dens of dreaming, I went to whorehouses and looked for you in between other women’s legs But you were not there. So I left the city of men and went to the mountains and the deserts, I swam in the waters of the world, everywhere I went you were not. Weary and alone, I built a house in a great tree and sat silent for a long time.  I cried out to the falling stars, “Where is my beloved? I am weary without her!  And at that very moment, from the base of the tree, a clear voice, the voice I had been waiting for during an endless  march of moons, your sweet voice answering my plea, calm as a sunset and bright as a bell,

“Right here my poet”

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