The first release is time.
You were prepared for this.
But not really. At least, you didn’t know
he’d have power to divide and recombine the night
and day. The clocks now tell you how little time is
left. Sound, it turns out, when the crying ends, exists
not only in time but as an aspect of it, which,
properly adjusted, unfolds
the inner angst of minutes.
Yes, his pitch is piercing, and unpleasant,
and you will fear what you are capable of
to quiet it. Only wait. Pray, and wait.
Next release all your intentions.
Yes, all of them. This is hard for you,
but he can read them in your eyes and he
is a jealous god. You may as well bundle them
like limp carrots, and feed them down
the black hole of his razored, red mouth.
Around now is the time to release space.
Don’t worry, it gets easier from here. At any rate
the world is being redistributed. Your home
contracts around you, and everywhere else,
literally, grows more distant. It sounds
worse than it is. Release it.
There: that is your reward,
the curve of infant mouth and eyes
when you are finally face to face.
Remember: you are in love, and love lives
on little luxuries. Your poverty
is the richness he brings you—
this little god, little icon,
little messenger of a recreated world.