What is love to you?

The way you carry the night
and the lagoon in the curves of your neck
is graceful, and that is worth loving,
when you look at it from the shore.

But you are carrying, not looking.
You are the frame, not the picture.
Forgive me—what do you love?

Do you love the cold water on your toes,
the dark moss, the taste and the tug
as you sift through it?

Do you love not being on the ground,
the lightness of your bones,
your idle, clacking beak? (I love that sound.)

How about the way
(as I prefer to say it)
you make love?

Hard wing beats, torn feathers,
roaring throats—if there’s any
warmth or sweetness there,
I can’t see it.
I can’t hear it.

Do you love the fat egg
you push out later?

Is any of it love to you?
If not, what is it?