Thursday, May 16, 2013

Chances to Remember

The ankle is the hinge. We travel upon it. Are lifted by it. It blurs in water rising slowly beyond it. Emerges silver, with little rainbows from the light. Where, one asks, are we going when there is always this perfect here? You shrugged out of your jean jacket and left it on the shore, a singular movement still shining in my mind. We stand together in cold shallows, watching my children. One recalls again Charlotte Wolfe on possession. You folded your arms and gave your head a little shake as if to clear it in order to ask, may we meet again? We who are lost are never without chances to remember we are home. The world scuttles all symbols and in the end we are left with love. One watches the landscape more closely while driving in an unfamiliar car. One hears the sound of water from long ago and smiles. A kiss delivers nothing a touch cannot and a touch merely confirms the neutral container. One asks, shyly, if they might touch your ankle. You lift it gently - moved - and sigh when my lips brush the hollows. Thus this. The lake was covered with catkins, the voices of children fluttered beautifully across it. And now we are here, now we are home.

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