I’ve refused to believe
you are meant for me.

Thunderstorms always seem
to play themselves out well
west of my haunt.
I’ve seen your like
sashaying gray on
the low western ridge,
thundering devolving
into giggling, pirouetting
shyly before Simpleton Peak.

In the late afternoon,
minds begin pushing,
prophesying.
I start believing
you are meant for me.

Watching you billowing,
filling the width of my vision,
watching you darken doorsteps
by the thousands, I
start to reckon with you,
start to respect you,
start to want you.

Eastern thinking kinds
collect eagerly
on agreeable curbs,
by piety’s crosswalks,
before a-framed
sanctuaries—
steeples standing
worthy of a romance
novel cover—sporting
for a good war to fight.

Are you afraid they’ll stab your feet, angel?

You cheat to the south, leaping
toward the flatlands,
to the root-laying farmer,
because you are older now;
you want to die nourishing
crops by rows, not rinsing
gutters. I tell myself
you’ve chosen wisely.

You pass eastward
unburdened, rising
softer and whiter, on
charming winds marching
northeast toward sunrise
shores, almost like… maybe like
you’ve gone out of your way
to miss me.

That’s how I feel honestly,
perhaps mistakenly;
my emotions are non-fiction,
pungent like an almost-
gone cigar singeing fingers
as it makes all minds smell
it. It is for the best
you were not meant for me.


Poet’s Notes:

The post’s title refers to a famous quote by President Spencer W. Kimball who said, “‘Soul mates’ are fiction and an illusion…” This came in an address titled Oneness in Marriage, given at Brigham Young University on September 7, 1976.

To try another piece of free verse, read Under the Belly of the Bird.

The storm clouds image is by Samuel F. Johanns on Pixabay. Reactions to the poem are welcome in the comments section below.