Every love starts with a spark. Few stay magical forever. In this episode, two poets trace the arc of a love — not from outside it, but from inside its unravelling.
Lang Leav's poem is structured as three questions asked by three abstractions: Gratitude, Joy, and Sorrow. What was it like to love him? To be loved in return? And then — after the long pause — what was it like to lose him? Her answer to the last is one of the most devastating lines in contemporary poetry: like hearing every goodbye ever said to me, said all at once.
Tishani Doshi takes a different approach entirely. Her poem begins at the end — or rather, at the certain knowledge that an end is coming, though neither person knows its shape yet. It might be a grand catastrophe. It might be a slow drift. It might be that you simply walk out one morning for cigarettes and don't come back. And because the ending is inevitable, she asks: why not begin the falling now? Why not reach for the seam in this night and tear it, just a little? Two poets, one question: what will we call it, when it's no longer love?
Three Questions
What was it like to love him? Asked Gratitude.
It was like being exhumed, I answered,
and brought to life in a flash of brilliance.
What was it like to be loved in return? Asked Joy.
It was like being seen after a perpetual darkness, I replied.
To be heard after a lifetime of silence.
What was it like to lose him? Asked Sorrow.
There was a long pause before I responded:
It was like hearing every goodbye ever said to me —
said all at once.
Lang Leav
We share poems in good faith and with full credit. A Letter to the Poets →
Love Poem
Ultimately, we will lose each other
to something. I would hope for grand
circumstance — death or disaster.
But it might not be that way at all.
It might be that you walk out
one morning after making love
to buy cigarettes, and never return,
or I fall in love with another man.
It might be a slow drift into indifference.
Either way, we'll have to learn
to bear the weight of the eventuality
that we will lose each other to something.
So why not begin now, while your head
rests like a perfect moon in my lap,
and the dogs on the beach are howling?
Why not reach for the seam in this South Indian
night and tear it, just a little, so the falling
can begin? Because later, when we cross
each other on the streets, and are forced
to look away, when we've thrown
the disregarded pieces of our togetherness
into bedroom drawers and the smell
of our bodies is disappearing like the sweet
decay of lilies — what will we call it,
when it's no longer love?
Tishani Doshi
We share poems in good faith and with full credit. A Letter to the Poets →