Ask Me
  (for Charles 62nd birthday)
by Gail Entrekin

This is a poem for you:
because you asked me
because the steely silver blade
of your truth telling defends me muddled
keeps me safe from the deep night
of my own scurrying confusion
slices my enemy fear
and leaves it lying in the dust:
you so shining, you my silver knight.

Because you stand so solid,
take all odd and unaccountable assaults
from your wild-haired woman in the courtyard,
who sends you off to battle with rivers
of tears, with cold regard,
with furious pummeling and wild fight

because inside your armor of worldly might
I know your tender taking and giving of all
strange needs and fantasies and curiosities found
at the beach—because you asked me:

if you go out in your clown suit
and no one laughs, I will. If you tell me
now that all the deep blueness of you
that I love has gone green,
I will throw off this dress, wail,
shake my hair, even stamp my feet;
I will weep and demand you blue,
but finally I will lie down in green grass,
pull at it, tear, coax the color
into my skin, I will go greener than
anything living on the planet
to stand inside the circle of your knowing.

I will put my vanity back in the pot,
comb out my wild hair, because you asked me,
asked me,
                          ask me,
                                         oh ask me again.  

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