I don’t want a love that sits on a throne 
 and calculates prospects. 
I want a love that hangs 
 
wet clothes in the wind
and rides on the back of an old horse 
carrying a girl and her crate of carrots 
to the market. 

I want a love like marrow 
shoveled
from the bones

of rugged people who still tell stories 
to each other.
I want a love that no poet 
would bother writing about, 

and one every king would condemn. 
I want the priests,
even the gentle ones, to call it blasphemy. 

 They can hide behind the pen, 
the crown, or the robe, 
but even the old horse knows 
that all poets weigh the same, 

priests were people 
before they were priests, 
and that if they are lucky, 

they’ll be people at the end too, 
and the wind as it passes 
through the clothesline 
and tickles the wet shawl, 

 will slip through the windows 
of whispering lovers to carry 
to kings and queens 

in their bedchambers 
a secret message- a hot breathe- 
of what it means to be naked, 
to dry the clothes of another.