"I won't be calling you again, now," her voice was caught between decision and instinct. "Please," my own voice caught in the snare of mechanical pride, the result of being one-upped by a woman with more willpower than my own. It was a half-chirp and a half-cry that my soul murmured. "You understand, now," she said like a desperado settling a long overdue score. It was not a question, it was the way it was to be.
"It doesn't matter anyway," these were a few of the last words she spoke to me. For days we had been at it; she had made her decision to walk away. Nothing would persuade her to stay; with each sob, each pleading request, she dug her heels in a little deeper. "But I loved you." Two opposing points of view. Two stubborn, beautiful birds. One determined to take flight. The other broken-winged on the ground, gazing upward at a darkened sky that was full of other beautiful birds.
I have been thinking a great deal lately about what it means to be gay. Today, as just one example, I discovered by pure happenstance that one of my favorite contemporary poets, Mary Oliver, shared her life with a female companion.
Mary Oliver, Poet, Naturalist, Spiritualist