We Do

Datin’ vs Courtship

Naw Ah up’n got tired of “dating’”

Or perhaps… tired of attempting to define it.

Tired deep down past mah own heart.

Down where polite language rots
off tha bone.

Too many tiny tables neither party owned…

careful mouths in lil dives
with sweet smiles…saying,

Let’s see where this goes...

n’ still keepin’ one foot
point’n t’ward someone else’s door.

Too many souls
touching bodies
before ever touching truth.

Almost chosen.

Almost known.

Almost home.

Almost… almost …

Oooft!

There is a particular
fucking grief

in mourning something
nobody had tha courage
ta define.

I have cried them tears.

Not pretty ones.

Hot ones.

Tha pissed off,
jaw clenched, tooth chipp’n kine…

Ya’ll know da kine…

stare‘n into darkness
wondering how two people
can share so damn much

n’ still have no fucking idea
what they’re building.

Then something ancient
scratched beneath my ribs.

Not preacher nor therapist.

Certainly not algorithm.

Older.

Much Much Older…

Tha Heathen.

Dirt faced bastard.

Barefoot.

Smoke in his beard.

Ancestors rattling Marrow
Deep Inside his bones.

He leaned against
tha doorway of this chest

n’ laughed.

“Boy...

ya keep looking for Love
like it’s something lost.”

Then pointed toward tha earth.

“Tend.”

Fuck.

N’there it was.

Husbandry.

Not husband
as owner.

Husband
as keeper.

Tender Home Tend’n…

Fire tender.

Seed saver.

Fence mender.

Storm watcher.

Tha one awake
when everybody else sleeps

because the living
has been entrusted
ta his care.

Our ancestors understood this.

Before Love became
an industry.

Before swipes.

Before situationships.

Before we became terrified
of asking another human being,

What tha fuck
are we doing here?

There was husbandry…

“Steward Of Home”

They planted deliberately.

Not knowing
whether rain would come.

N’ that-there … That’s faith.

They tended deliberately.

Not knowing
whether seed would rise.

N’ that-there? … That’s hope.

N’ when something finally
broke dirt...

they guarded it.

N’ that-there… (are ya lissen’n?)

That-there … This… yes… this …

THIS IS LOVE.

But guarding requires

Respect.

N’ don’t mistake Respect
for weakness.

Respect got old blood
behind its eyes.

Generations
in its spine.

Roots
beneath its feet.

N’ teeth...

Sharp Ass Fucking Teeth.

Teeth capable
of tearing flesh

that choose instead
ta guard tha threshold.

N’That? Yep…

Respect.

Not inability.

Restraint
with power behind it.

It stands before
another sovereign soul,

close enough ta enter...

wanted enough ta enter...

trusted enough ta enter...

n’ still

fucking knocks.

Love says,

I want ya.

Respect bares its teeth:

She belongs ta herself.

N’ Desire...

for once
in its hungry life...

bows.

Not defeated.

Devoted.

That’s Courtship.

Two chairs n’ One Table…

Our Table.

No masks.

No invisible contracts.

Here is my heart.

Here is my history.

Here is where
I still bleed.

Here is what
I desire.

Here is what
I cannot accept.

Here is my boundary.

I show mine n’now ya can show me yers.

Here is my truth.

Bring yers naked and bare.

Not body.

Soul.

Let’s see whether
our truths can sit together

without either of us
having ta lie
ta keep tha peace.

Because peace bought
with silence

ain’t peace.

It’s burial.

N’ this Heathen
has crawled outta
enough fucking graves.

Naw… Listen Please…

Ah ain’t promising ya

Ah will.

Tomorrow has been laundering
bullshit for centuries.

I’ve heard that language dressed up real purdy:

I will change.

I will listen.

I will stay.

I will love ya better.

Nah.

Tomorrow ain’t breathed
one goddamn breath yet.

Today has.

So...

I DO.

I do see ya.

I do listen.

I do tell truth
when truth costs.

I do honor yer No.

I do guard
what ya hand me tender.

I do desire ya

without mistaking hunger
for permission.

I do fuck up… oh yeah I FUCK up

Yet…I do own it.

I do repair.

I do return.

N’ across tha table

Your free soul says,

I Do.

Listen Here!!!

Two breaths.

Neither swallowed.

Two fires.

Neither extinguished.

Two names.

Neither erased.

Two

I Am’s

standing before each other

without demanding
either become less

so something called “me”
can become more.

That ain’t union.

That’s consumption.

Fuck that.

I want relationship.

Rope between open hands.

Not noose.

Not leash.

Not chain.

A knot tied
with enough knowledge

that either hand
knows exactly
how ta release it.

And still...

they hold.

Holy shit.

They hold.

Maybe that’s where
Love comes alive.

Not because it cannot leave.

Because it can

n’yet chooses
ta remain.

That’s when

I Do

meets

I Do

n’ creates language
neither mouth
could speak alone.

We Do.

We tend.

We tell truth.

We listen.

We amend.

We forgive.

We return.

We keep tha fire

without burning
Our Home.

N’ Dorie...

when I say,

“Let’s show ’em
how it’s done…”

I ain’t talking perfection.

Let tha next generation
see our dirt.

Let ’em see us angry

without becoming cruel.

Let ’em see tears

without somebody winning.

Let ’em see boundaries
with gates.

Strength
with tenderness.

Freedom
with devotion.

Let ’em see two people
carry keys

n’ still knock respectfully.

Let ’em see Love
with fucking manners

n’ Respect
with sharp ass fucking teeth.

Let ’em see our Feral Heathen too.

Barefoot in tha garden.

Dirt beneath our nails.

Laughing at every religion
that ever tried ta teach us

Love meant ownership.

We knows better now.

Love ain’t something
we fall into.

Hell...

anything can fall.

Fruit falls.

Rain falls.

Empires fall.

Bodies fall.

Falling requires
nothing but gravity.

Love requires constant tend’n.

Maybe someday…

Perhaps just maybe…

one of those young souls
will stand tremblin

before another human heart

n’ hear something ancient
moving beneath their ribs.

Ancestors.

Breath.

Blood.

Bone.

Tha old Heathen
whispering from tha dirt:

“Tend Our Home”

“Come to Our Table”

“Pull Our Chairs.”

“Speak truth.”

“Leave tha gate open.”

“Put yer hands
in tha fucking soil.”

“Plant deliberately.”

“N’ quit asking,

Where is this going?”

Ask something
worthy of two lives:

What are we creating?

Then breathe.

Eyes open.

Hands free.

Teeth sharp.

Gate unlocked.

I Do.

I Do.

N’ somewhere beneath us

roots begin touching roots.

Tha dead grin
through tha soil.

Tha living lean closer.

N’ all those generations
that fucked it up,

survived it,

learned,

loved,

lost,

n’ tried again

hear two sovereign souls
answer tha oldest question
we ever carried across
tha threshold:

Are ya alive?

I breathe.

Ya breathe.

Love breathes
between us.

We Are.

So...

We Do… Yes my Love…

WE DO.

Before The Mouth Knew