I took you so seriously,
that letter you wrote to me.
Your voice rose from a decade of times gone by
and my entire romantic history seeped from the raw pages
& soaked me in the nostalgic scent of old sweat & tears & breezes:
his fingers, her hair, his chest as I awoke embraced,
his anger as I fell asleep with my back turned.
Did your spite confirm all the digs from lovers past
I never wanted to believe?
Could you truly see my worst parts through
those years and miles?
And always you were one I trusted amidst
your 'delusions,' & sidestepping & understated profundity.
So your letter paused my being,
my whole life soaked through one moment, my breath hovered,
my eyes still, piercing the centerpoint of each love,
wondering.
This is what trust can do.
I don't allow it much anymore.
After all these years, after all the re-keying of my locks,
you reserved a secret passageway,
some door long forgotten,
left open all this time.
So you can imagine when you said the letter wasn't to me,
that it was meant for a recent lover during the bitter torrents of a breakup,
what had already blown through that open gateway.
And you can imagine the beautiful shock of hearing and believing
when you whispered through those open shutters,
"I love you. Your life is tremendous."
Wednesday, October 19, 2005
We Both had to Laugh
You stood in that doorway so angry, helplessly angry it seemed. We both had to laugh. The subtle curl of your lips gave me permission to transition stunned bewilderment into incredulous laughter. Like the little boy who wants to shame his mother, the one woman who will always be there. That seductive curiosity: can you control her? But the bigger question is: can you forgive her? Can you forgive the transgressions of your youth she couldn't control? And what about the ones she could? Ahh...so we see why when you lie by the riverside her darkened face rises from your dreams. And how I wish her face didn't turn into mine. Should I forgive you? Should I overlook this danger I'm never likely to escape? Your face rises from my dreams and I feel your hands slip about my waist. It's not enough to be held. Sometimes it's enough to be held.
Monday, July 11, 2005
Fire & Ice
I want to remember… Whenever change sweeps through like a gust through piles of fallen leaves, when love ripens into loss, I fear forgetting. In the same heartbeat – as I turn to walk away – I wonder if I’ve sentenced myself to the terminal ache of missing. It’s not that I won’t claim my spring; I enjoy that part. But at some point, all the seasons blend together, and one is never untouched by the others. It brings new meaning to the liquid ambar leaves scattered about the base of my installation, which opened in the bright green of spring.
He was the kind of lover who could carry my heart of winter straight into the heat of summer without batting an eye. And I gazed, wide-eyed, as he covered me with his beautiful body like a blanket to cut my chill. (”So long to this cold, cold part of the world.”) And sometimes I would let myself melt into him like wavelets on the horizon, lingering in his syrupy sky, a subtle pulse of summer’s fury. Other times, I felt so clearly the boundary of my cool skin, the calm winter of my mind, silent, admiring the deep stretch of his red heart. We would dance like fire and ice, each to his own, each enjoying the solidarity of his season (yes, at times I was as a man with him). I relished in white for 40 days and 40 nights. And perhaps for a fortnight or two, I would invite him to hibernate in the snowy depths. I felt so at home there, he spread beside me like a summer feast among sleeping bears. And I think he enjoyed the freedom of being unconsumed.
Icarus’ envy, he could spread his wings and fly toward the sun without melting. I grew to love his ride on my cool breeze. I wanted to take him to the ocean, where the sun sets on the water, where 70 degree days marry summer and winter, where we tousle in rolling waves, and for a moment, let the rest fall away: just laugh, hold hands, shed the seasons for a salty glow all our own. But we got caught in the undertow before we ever reached the coast. Blazing woods took us on a detour and then sleet froze the road before we made it over the pass. I suppose we were meant to simply hold each other’s season for a time and admire with separate skin. I’ll dream of those hot winter nights for many autumn moons.
He was the kind of lover who could carry my heart of winter straight into the heat of summer without batting an eye. And I gazed, wide-eyed, as he covered me with his beautiful body like a blanket to cut my chill. (”So long to this cold, cold part of the world.”) And sometimes I would let myself melt into him like wavelets on the horizon, lingering in his syrupy sky, a subtle pulse of summer’s fury. Other times, I felt so clearly the boundary of my cool skin, the calm winter of my mind, silent, admiring the deep stretch of his red heart. We would dance like fire and ice, each to his own, each enjoying the solidarity of his season (yes, at times I was as a man with him). I relished in white for 40 days and 40 nights. And perhaps for a fortnight or two, I would invite him to hibernate in the snowy depths. I felt so at home there, he spread beside me like a summer feast among sleeping bears. And I think he enjoyed the freedom of being unconsumed.
Icarus’ envy, he could spread his wings and fly toward the sun without melting. I grew to love his ride on my cool breeze. I wanted to take him to the ocean, where the sun sets on the water, where 70 degree days marry summer and winter, where we tousle in rolling waves, and for a moment, let the rest fall away: just laugh, hold hands, shed the seasons for a salty glow all our own. But we got caught in the undertow before we ever reached the coast. Blazing woods took us on a detour and then sleet froze the road before we made it over the pass. I suppose we were meant to simply hold each other’s season for a time and admire with separate skin. I’ll dream of those hot winter nights for many autumn moons.
Sunday, March 20, 2005
Why fear vacuity?
Napping in the park. Sunshine syrup when I open my eyes. Greens & grasses seem unreal, melting together with the bird calls & swishing trees.
Can I rest my mind? My body sinks into clover and my lids grow heavy. Can I let go of becoming for a moment and just be? Why should I let a moment of rest confirm my torpidity? A sabbath puts the insatiable quest of younger years to sleep and rebuilds potential energy. So much of my life is kinesthetic, why fear vacuity?
Can I rest my mind? My body sinks into clover and my lids grow heavy. Can I let go of becoming for a moment and just be? Why should I let a moment of rest confirm my torpidity? A sabbath puts the insatiable quest of younger years to sleep and rebuilds potential energy. So much of my life is kinesthetic, why fear vacuity?
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