I was not in love in Lebanon;
Not under its fragrant cypresses and golden sunsets,
Nor over the white sands of that little cove, hidden
In New Hampshire, only known to a few New Yorkers and I.
I was not in love in Paris, nor by the azure waters of
The Mediterranean Sea, nor was it in a small café by
Piazza Novona that I knew love, nor in the hallways
Of Sissi’s castle, one autumn afternoon, in fair Vienna,
Serenaded by the notes of Bach, played on strings.
It was not in the streets of Buenos Aires that I fell in love.
It was not over a white sail boat playing seagull with a Canadian breeze.
I was not in love under the lights of London; I was not in love
On a Caribbean beach; I was not in love under tapestries of the Japanese
Cherry blossoms, nor did I write the name of my beloved somewhere
In the Suleiman mosque of Istanbul. I was not in love in the Africa savanna,
Nor did the pyramid witness our first kiss. I was not in love in Peru,
Nor was love with me when I walked the cloudy heights of Macchu Picchu.
I was not in love in Brazil; nor was it in a cruise that I met his eyes.
It was here, in this cold, wet, unassuming little village
That I was in love, that I lived in love,
Somewhere between Manchester and Leeds.
It was here that I lost myself in the eyes of my beloved;
Here were I made a nest for my soul in the fold of his arms;
Here where I was always warm and my voice was the song
Of the sparrow in spring. Here, that he made me laugh and
Ate my burned apple and pecan Wednesday pie. It was in this
Almost nameless place, a speck in the map, that he turned me
Into dancer, mistress, goddess and slave. Where the moon smiled
At our naked bodies by the lake, dewy and chilled, burning and hot,
Laughter and kisses, lickings and hugs, the two of us,
Embraced into one. Here.