Good Whiskey

Love is?
What?

A feeling
A sense of senses,
run wild
Of things that can’t be said
That come
That go

A meeting,
on a street corner
Mystical yet logical
Unexplainable
Yet explicable?

They say
it’s hormones
Of things that go click in the brain
That maybe so
but reducing it though
to molecules that fit, as in a jigsaw
of feelings
is so mundane.

Is it
love in a lab coat?
A badge that says
The Department of Love?
A civil service of the senses?

I remember though
a time
when eyes locked like swords
Of words that pierced the heart
Pinned
Spinned
and finally,
left one breathless

But I’m no doctor
No doctor of love
No mojo talking
No walking
on soft-boiled eggs
No wobbly legs
No nonsense
of the senses

There is no motion
for a potion
of love
which reads
For internal use only
Apply when needed?

Instead…

I let my body drift
The skin a sea that heaves and swells
That yells
That love
is that
Just love.

Don’t explain

Leave it be
Do we need to dissect,
Everything?
Is love a frog
Splayed out?
that we poke about
Looking for love’s location?
As though exploring the liver
explains the taste of good whiskey?

Johannesburg, Thursday, August 16, 2001

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