I was deeply moved by this choral composition of my poem “Until We Could,” by composer Oliver Caplan. Thank you, Oliver, and the New Hampshire Master Chorale, for this beautiful song—an affirmation, an act of humanity, beauty, and resistance. I’m grateful for all the love and care that went into this, and for the tender words he shares below in reflection on the song’s evolution.
Recorded Live by the New Hampshire Master Chorale
Dan Perkins, Music Director
November 22, 2025
“Richard Blanco, President Barack Obama’s inaugural poet, wrote Until We Could in 2014 for the Freedom to Marry coalition. He frames the poem with a tender letter to his husband, Mark, and within those intimate bookends, he places their personal story in the wider arc of the marriage equality movement. At its heart, this is what sustains all social movements: real people, real lives.
I was first drawn to set Until We Could to music in honor of the tenth anniversary of Obergefell v. Hodges, the landmark Supreme Court decision that affirmed the nationwide right of same-sex couples to marry. That milestone is deeply personal for me as well—it came just three weeks after my own wedding, to my husband, Chris.
What began as a celebratory project has taken on a more sober tone in light of today’s climate. We are witnessing a painful rollback of gay rights—and civil rights more broadly. National Park sites, including Stonewall, have been ordered to censor their educational materials, erasing the “T” from LGBTQ+. Businesses have secured the right to refuse service to same-sex couples. Many states, including New Hampshire—where this piece is being premiered—have banned gender-affirming care for minors.
Now, more than ever, we must redouble our efforts for freedom and equality. We must retell history so that it is not forgotten, and we must carry forward the simplest and most enduring truth: Love is love.”
UNTIL WE COULD
for Mark
I knew it then—when we first found our eyes,
in our eyes, and everything around us—even
the din and smoke of the city—disappeared,
leaving us alone as if we were the only two
men in the world, two mirrors face-to-face:
my reflection in yours, yours in mine, infinite.
I knew since I knew you—but we couldn’t.
I caught the sunlight pining through the shears,
traveling millions of dark miles simply to graze
your skin as I did that first dawn I studied you
sleeping beside me: I counted your eyelashes,
read your dreams like butterflies flitting under
your eyelids and ready to flutter into the room.
Yes, I praised you like a majestic creature god
forgot to create, till that morning of you tamed
in my arms, first for me to see, name you mine.
Yes, to the rise and fall of your body, your every
exhale and inhale a breath I breathed as my own
wanting to keep even the air between us as one.
Yes to all of you. Yes I knew, but still we couldn’t.
I taught you how to dance Salsa by looking
into my Caribbean eyes. You learned to speak
in my tongue, while teaching me how to catch
a snowflake in my palms, love the grey clouds
of your worn-out hometown. Our years began
collecting in glossy photos time-lining our lives
across shelves and walls glancing back at us:
Us embracing in some sunset, more captivated
by each other than the sky brushed plum-rose.
Us claiming some mountain that didn’t matter
as much our climbing it, together. Us leaning
against columns of ruins as ancient as our love
was new, or leaning into our dreams at a table
flickering candlelight in our full-mooned eyes.
I knew me as much as us, and yet we couldn’t.
Though I forgave your blue eyes turning green
each time you lied, kept believing you, though
we managed to say good morning after muted
nights in the same bed, though every door slam
told me to hold on by letting us go, and saying
you’re right became as true as saying I’m right,
till there was nothing a long walk couldn’t solve:
holding hands and hope under the streetlights
lustering like a string of pearls guiding us home,
or a stroll along the beach with our dog, the sea
washed out by our smiles, our laughter roaring
louder than the waves. Though we understood
our love was the same as our parents, though
we dared to tell them so, and they understood.
Though we knew, we couldn’t—no one could.
When fiery kick lines and fires were set for us
by our founding mother-fathers at Stonewall,
we first spoke of defiance. When we paraded
glitter, leather, and rainbows, our word then
became pride down city streets, demanding:
Just let us be. But that wasn’t enough. Parades
became rallies—bold words on signs, shouting
until we all claimed freedom as another word
for marriage and said: Let us in, insisted: love
is love, proclaimed it into all eyes that would
listen at any door that would open, until noes
and maybes turned into yeses, town by town,
city by city, state by state, understanding us
and all those who dared to say enough until
the gavel struck into law what we always knew:
Love is the right to say: I do and I do and I do. . .
and I do want us to see every tulip we’ve planted
come up spring after spring, a hundred more years
of dinners cooked over a shared glass of wine, and
a thousand more movies in bed. I do until our eyes
become voices speaking without speaking, until
like a cloud meshed into a cloud, there’s no more
you, me—our names useless. I do want you to be
the last face I see—your breath my last breath,
I do, I do and will and will for those who still can’t
vow it yet, but know love’s exact reason as much
as they know how a sail keeps the wind without
breaking, or how roots dig a way into the earth,
or how the stars open their eyes to the night, or
how a vine becomes one with the wall it loves, or
how, when I hold you, you are rain in my hands.
