A fortune-teller told me
It’s alright to ask for a miracle
until Friday. And said nothing more
about wishes being granted
whether on Friday or afterwards.
Not a disclaimer, I suppose, just
a mere statement to manage
expectations and grander than usual
hopes bound by schedule and deadlines.
So I thought hard
and came up with, as one would expect,
Images of you and me, gray-haired
and failing memories. Picking out scenes
to be included in the moving reel
Death will play to welcome us into the Afterlife.
I thought of other things I wanted:
Bathtubs full of money tax-free,
or better yet, a world without the need for currency;
A congress void of politicians;
Reforested forests and plastic-free oceans;
Neighborhoods everywhere, lawns open
teeming with Bob Marley’s herb of choice.
So I assigned one wish for every day of the week,
and hoped for more chances of a miracle
coming true. When Friday came,
I offered my miracle for yours.
A fitting finale, a fairytale happy ending:
My wish is for your wish to come true.
This is why the lovers always win
even if they never join the lottery.
The strongest ones will stay together
even if death parts their physical bodies.
Because stronger than any other fanatic’s religion
is a true lover’s affectionate devotion
founded in the temple of a body and the altar of a gaze,
in the divinity of a heart and the sanctity of desire.
No deadline for a miracle
could render impossible or merely whimsical,
always exceeding expectations
and never bound by the hour.
I don’t need to think hard
About wishing for the miracle of you.
Because no magic is needed here,
it shouldn’t be too grand to be hoped,
it shouldn’t be that unthinkable
for me to belong with you.