We walk hand in hand
on the forest trail,
I can feel your thoughts
pulsating through your bony fingers
interlaced between mine,
amassing joy at the touch
of something pure.
There are tortuous moments of silence
chiseling our bodies apart
as they navigate the uneven ground,
toes stepping over rising roots
that look like grandmother’s arms,
stones erupting, pushing away the layers
of lost life making homes
for tiny legged potato beetles.
Your fingers unravel from mine,
your arm twisting taut behind you,
shoulder blade cutting through your flesh
as you move forward three steps
ahead, my shyness an anchor
around your free thoughts,
and as your hand breaks from mine
I am showered with the vision
of skin stranding into silk ribbons
hung on the hooks of your desire.
You find a sharp stick,
hold it to your eyes for inspection,
lips moving silently, your mind circumnavigating
a world I cannot see. You begin
writing our poem into the moist earth,
with its hidden fears, its death, its seed of life,
its fragility, with sweeping arcs
and dominating angles, standing
at first and then falling close
to the words you cannot
take with you.
Aleathia Drehmer 2007
Published by Full of Crow 2/09
No comments:
Post a Comment