May 27, 2022
684: I Would Do Anything For Love, But I Won't
May 27, 2022
684: I Would Do Anything For Love, But I Won't
Transcript
I’m Ada Limón and this is The Slowdown.
I am often laughing with my husband about our own idiosyncrasies. The part of us that only we know, the things that could never be said to anyone else but each other. I love that private language. That lexicon. My private moments, his private moments. I have it with good friends too, the things that don’t require explanation. That’s the real history of us.
In today’s poem we see the private language of habits, desires, and boundaries unfold. I love how this poem gives us a glimpse into the private world of love.
I Would Do Anything For Love, But I Won’t
by Traci Brimhall
cook lobster. They’re loyal sea rubies and deserve better than a pinch of lemon and herbed butter. But I’ll shower hot enough to brighten you, make zinnias of your shoulders and steal the towels when it’s over, your water-tattooed back a garden before it fades. I won’t shave anything unless I feel like it, but I’ll wax whatever part of your body you request. I’m not an empath, so I won’t cry when I do it. I’ll let your pain be yours. I won’t give up coffee or pistachios or my dog. I know you wouldn’t ask, but I like to be up front about my boundaries. I bark mine like a seagull, touching my books, my mother’s china, my chest, but you’re fine with kindness. You wait for me to feel safe. I will always let you tease me about talking to my plants when I water them if you let me tease the way your hips go stiff when we salsa, but even then I won’t plan another trip to Rome with you. Not this year anyway. Not after we’ve given back the tickets and calendars, dinners and sunburns we thought were waiting. Instead let’s accept the mail order lemon trees. Let’s accept repeating puzzles we’ve already finished, try the paloma recipe again. Let’s accept it’s not what we would do for each other, but what we can do, and I can feed the sourdough starter we named Gizmo. You can return my bowl when you’ve washed it. But I won’t let you say Pluto is not a planet—I miss the solar system’s symmetry. I won’t agree that ghosts aren’t real, even if you’re right. I like a dose of fear. I like whispering back to the knocks on the wall. I won’t release balloons when you die because I love sea turtles almost as much as you. Maybe it’s a tie. I won’t kiss anyone after you die for at least 60 days, and probably longer, but if I meet someone who smells like you, I might invite them into the rain and keep my eyes closed. We can disagree about the shower curtain, can have days without texts. I can chide you about the state of your tomatoes, and you can correct the way I say trilobite, and the only time I’ll run is across the gymnasium in a pink dress, and the only time I will give up is in hearts, when I count the cards and know your hand, and yes, I want to help you shoot the moon.
"I Would Do Anything for Love But I Won't" by Traci Brimhall. Used by permission of the poet.