Love Poem

When I sit to write,
you know that
and you distract our kids
from my writing room.

When I read the poem to you
and ask, What do you think?
You say, It’s beautiful,
though you know
that frustrates me.

Beautiful is not enough,
not next to you,
not next to the poem.

I’m asking you about
what makes my poem a poem,
just like when you ask me
what makes you my love:

your tears, your scolds when I spend
too much time writing my poems,

when the tea grows cold,
your jealousy of the poem,

the way you searched for me
when I was kidnapped
(our daughter, Yaffa, told me
all about it when I returned),

how I searched for you all—

your carrying our home, our destroyed home,
with you in your memories
(I forget so quickly
and that’s why I take a lot of photos),

your hand holding the pencil with me
when my fingers freeze out of fear,
your name,
which reminds me there is a goal.