"Let me play the guy this time,
Mr. Poet," she insists.
"You want to play Romeo?", I ask.
"I want you to play Juliet," she explains.
Do I have to do Juliet's voice, I wonder?
She fits an imaginary ring of flowers
on my head and I buckle my equally
peace-loving sword around her waist.
She takes my right hand in hers
and takes up the first of fourteen lines
of a little pop song rhymed over
400 years ago and embedded in a play.
My hand is a holy place according to her,
a place that her hands
are unworthy to touch.
If I have a problem with my saintly hand in hers
she has her lips,
like two blushing pilgrims,
standing ready with a kiss
to make amends for the offense.
Hold on there girl.
You're being way too hard
on your hands.
Pilgrims high five or fist bump
the hands of statued saints
all the time and that works
just as well as a kiss so far
as the saints are concerned.
Still speaking in rhyme she muses
that saints and pilgrims have lips too.
That's true but their lips are meant
to be used in prayer, I point out.
I must let her lips pray as her hands
have already done and grant her prayer
lest she despair in her faith. My lips
soon taste the sweetness of her prayers.
The sins she had, I guess
are mine now. Knowing that,
she kisses me again
to take them back.
Dedicated to Nora
Copyright (c) 2016 by the authors.