Loving is scary because it zooms. You are glued to a something, I think, and then you feel whenever whatever zips away the pain that is too much. Liking I can do. Liking is this bowl of a rich Chinese green not seen anywhere in the slick city. Liking is enough sometimes, but not really. I mean, the fabulous, fantastic stuff my roommate carefully cooks every evening, and with it we sip a good merlot or some white. Wanting, if maybe I want a thing, do I love it? Is the thread of desire I send to it something? I love [blank]. I refuse to think of that which wants to be wrapped in my spinning web mind. After all, freedom comes in letting go (my mother’s old hippie posters taught me) and don’t me want to be free?
Jean Biegun, retired in California, began writing poetry twenty years ago as a way to counter big-city job stress, and it worked. Poems have appeared in Mobius: The Poetry Magazine, After Hours: A Journal of Chicago Writing and Art, World Haiku Review, Goose River Anthology, and other places.