Three Love Prayers for Beckie

by Alan Weisman

1. Courtship:

A Prayer For the Evening Meal

If we lived together,

would that spell an end

to my private buffet dinners

supped standing

in the pale chill

of open refrigerators?

To banquets of dripping black olives

plucked from Tupperware,

a fistful of salad, the dregs of

bleu cheese and Camembert

thoughtlessly bagged together,

their bouquets appallingly fused,

compelling desperate swigs

from a plastic bottle

of raspberry seltzer,

followed by a

probing finger

of pesto,

then a broken Dutch pretzel

swabbed with the same?

If you were here now,

would my self-pitying heart

have no need to justify

cracking the freezer,

to behold the remains of

the chocolate?

Nobody's watching. No one sees

me break it with trembling hands,

dusting the floor with

brown shards that I'll forget

— till they stick to my feet

and reappear on the carpet,

making me rage again,

stupid with loneliness.

Yet, even as my needy jaws

suckle a moment's cheap sweetness

to placate my weakened flesh

I do remember:

A hand, reaching for mine

across an oaken table

set with cloth napkins

and fragrant plates,

faultlessly composed

to revive this starving soul.

           *

If we were each other's,

would we sit to eat

like the normal folk

we've never been,

gorging on the sight of ourselves

like that, forever?

Dear God.

Do you promise?

2. Betrothal:

Crossing the Río Magdalena, Santander Province, Colombia

August, 1996

In a town along a deadly river,

I lay in a darkened safe-house,

resurrecting your voice.

Hours before, a shining fruit

a child found in an orchard had

exploded when he plucked its stem.

I arrived to sirens and

seething ambulance lights

that further bloodied the waters

I had come to drink.

I never slept. Neither had young widows

who'd huddled here before,

suckling babies with grief

that poured from men so twisted

they exalted creeds

they lived for

above all life itself.

And now I was one of them.

Be safe, was all you'd asked.

I will, I'd assured —

a promise I was about to break,

a betrayal I justified for truth.

Truth, that self-righteous bitch

who, for years — for want of you —

I'd nightly clenched to my breast

to chill myself to sleep,

truth, who had beguiled me

to believe that truth outlasts life.

Now I had slunk back to truth's numbing embrace — far from your silken

comfort,

from the blessed balm of your love.

At dawn, I embarked on the river

silted with its accumulated sorrows.

Beyond any justice, I was spared.

By evening I returned, bearing trophies of truth: garlands of words I'd

snatched

from sharpened claws,

which had impaled others

less lucky than I.

Sickened, relieved,

I paced the harbor's hot streets

and tendered God a deal:

He could have those words,

all my words, in exchange for you.

Some Protector: He refused. The words,

God said, were mine to offer,

but love, He reminded, has no price.

So it was up to me.

Days later,

far from the river,

I prayed before a crystal case

that housed a bed of velvet,

which held a loop of gold

that enclosed a shining gem.

An angel appeared, a jeweler's loupe

suspended from her halo.

¡A la orden! — may I help you?

the angel dared.

Quaking with priceless love, I bowed

and thought I glimpsed God's face.

He smiled. He watched me risk cold truth

to live within your grace.

3. Marriage:

Sonnet Beyond Words

March 29, 1997

No more words! Words cannot contain

deliverance from years of rain,

the smile restored to me again,

your alchemizing of my pain.

Stripped of words I stand revealed,

with love now as my only shield

from fear that once refused to yield,

from rage with God, now newly healed.

Near wordless in this forest light,

to music drawn from heaven's height,

blessed by these witnesses delight

I beg your hand to make life right.

Please wear my ring and trust my vow

and marry me forever. Now.