Sunday, August 16, 2015

One Way You Say It

Half a dozen cups of coffee through which silence strains like sorrow in the nineteenth century and then it's morning. C. rolls over and we touch the way you do when it's not about touch (well, not just about touch). Two days running now the cardinal avoids the feeder or else decomposes in a fox's belly or is memory itself a sieve? Are you gone truly? One asks for it. Hunger terrifies me, as all appetites terrify me, and so the world remains. Or do I return to it? I still arch a little, kissed just so, and it makes us laugh. Perhaps joy is predictable, awakening mechanical. Her hand on my shoulder directs me and I flow - or follow - accordingly. Actually, I never leave but stumble on like a moose through snowdrifts, both wordy and wordless, a pilgrim who can't remember where he came from, much less where he's going. Fran offers a deal on oxen, reigniting the old fantasy of working all day with an ax in the woods. Whispering while moaning, knowing the way, enfolded by her a loveliness. It's important to say no sometimes too. Yes? Reciprocity, inclusivity. Ideals. You know how the parts crumble to reveal the whole. I hold her hair back, grateful as always, and as always a little amazed. Trust what works? Trust the gift being given? You have to see how the winter maple somehow contains the potential for green, and how green is never not contemplating the dark. Patiently we learn to follow, becoming less and less reliant on notes, ours or anyone else's. Urgent kisses after, salty and full, for the one who holds us, or holds the light. Shares the way? Well, I am happy and this is how you say it - this is one way you say it - at last.

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