Love Poem For a Woman I've Been Warned Does Not Exist

You're my favorite frying pan for eggs.
You're the way I always know how far it'll shoot.

You're that cocktail, made just right
where the last dram fills the glass.
You're the wax I'll never scrape
from the surface of my table.
You're the rifle on my wall
to which my guests' eyes all adhere.

You're the half-bottle of tonic
I'll drink when nothing's left.
You're the feather on the pond
that floats farther away
the harder I writhe
to catch you for my cap.

("So he knows,"
they point and say.
"He knows, and does it anyway.")

I have an ancestor
whose dying wish was honored
to not be buried next to
her long-dead, horrid husband.
The priest spoke of forgiveness
while our family counted miles.

Maybe never meeting
will nurture best our love.