I like to pretend I don’t write love poems. I like to pretend my poetry isn’t informed by the lives of those around me. I like to pretend that poetry isn’t a thing of plasma and marrow and bile, that I don’t need it, because there isn’t any money in it. Sure. We pretend things all the time, like we’re happy with our jobs, or that tomorrow will be better.
I like to pretend I don’t write love poems. But I will tell you a secret: there is a folder nestled deep among my other poems where I put all the love poems I write. It’s called “Effing Love Poems.” Not “Fucking Love Poems.” “Effing Love Poems.” Because I can’t even be serious with myself when I pretend to disdain love poems.
I like to pretend I don’t write love poems. But I write love poems. May I share my love poems with you?