“My bones are not softer than average, and their pain when broken is sharp, hard. But years of injuries have taught me that bodies are soft—softer when wounded—all the way down to the bone.”
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Because so much of patriarchal culture writes off any nurturing type of love as femininity or as lesser, it’s easy (and strongly encouraged) to hear “the way men love” as an oxymoron, or as a warning. But there’s also something so sweet about the love that startles through that expectation, that blooms regardless and despite it. The love that forgets to introduce itself.
Whenever I see a small aircraft descend past my apartment, with drooping lights against a dark sky and darker ridgeline, I think of a poem by Ada Limón, called “Accident Report in the Tall, Tall Weeds.” There’s a section that reminds me so much of my dad…
A puddled reflection cleaves / the largest robin I’ve ever seen. Cleaves, / or doubles. Doubles, or deifies. A worship / of muddy knees. Hinging / in any direction.