Category Archives: C. Beth Loofe

OF CHERUBIM AND COFFEE

OF CHERUBIM AND COFFEE
C. Beth Loofe

last night i dreamed of ambiguous babies.
split gender children gleeful with the possibilities of being doubly blessed.
i dreamed of you.
your face, sometimes dark, shadowed by perpetrations, transgressions
and dirt scratched sharecropper’s fields.
it is going to take a lot to get that plot to yield again.
ripe only bears fruit in gardens grown
by hands that can nurture the seeds sewn,
planted without the slanted knowledge that eventually?
these earth mothers will eat their own young.
they just won’t think about it until after the salad’s off their plate
and the fate of those small snow pea seed children unaware of their own natures,
dances,
frozen in place
the contradiction makes each truth real.
perched on unknown futures
spitting holy water from cherubic eunuch lips.
their irony drips off my back
as i steal pennies from fountains
taking someone else’s luck
making a buck off stolen wishes
trying to make sense of it all.
and i can’t
so i meet you for coffee break conversations
and our voices mingle like the sugar and cream in the cups neither one of us have
thoughts connecting across the miles like string theory
relative and meaningful, lacking explanation in their absolute correctness.
i ask you if this is going to change
i ask you if you could you spare some change
i ask you if you could you bare some change
and you say yes.
and you pour me another cup of incantations sweetened by sugar and cream
tell me to tell you more about that split gendered dream i had.
and i do
and i smile as tears form in the back of my throat for dreams that are more reflections than imaginations
i tell you that in my dreams,
i carry your burdens for you
tell you that as much as you feel torn
split
damaged,
you are whole
beautiful
perfect.
i tell you, in my dreams,
you bear fruit,
ripe and vine fresh
you yield.
but you will never be an english garden.
your form was never meant to be planned out and contained.
seedlings grown in sharecroppers’ fields need to be ready to uproot,
fibers intact,
to settle in more fertile ground, if they have to.
i tell you my dream
which is really just an excuse for lucidities i am too afraid to share,
and you warm my cup.
pour me another round of long distance wisdom
caring by reverberation.
you tell me, “thank you.”
you tell me i think too much.
you tell me this friendship/relationship we have planted smells sweet,
and to take deep breaths of it,
before they find something to knock the wind out of us with.
reminding me us you that we are breakable and worthy of bubble wrap kindness,
but that not everyone will mark fragile on the boxes they pack us in.
i ask you who ‘they’ are.
you tell me, “everyone.”
you tell me, “i love you.”
you tell me to hurry and finish my coffee, so that we can go work in the garden.