The Conversation Imagined
He says he doesn’t see,
not quite past that first strand
of cobwebs that hide the corners,
but he listens,
his blue eyes full
and I say again
what I can only measure
with a poet’s eye.
I tell him that my heart
yearns for more days,
that I feel time next to me
pushing me against myself
and my skin feels so thin.
He touches my arms,
runs his finger down the blue vein
and lingers in the curve inside my elbow,
telling me he understands how this skin
and dew no longer clings
but must be slathered on daily
drenched but still it thirsts
for intensive care, yes
he sees that.
But that is not it I say,
that is only a layer that is tangible,
I am hidden in here with all these years
filled up and bloated with things
that need to be mentioned
because they sing to me
and fill me to bursting.
He cocks his head and turns away
from my face that has become too open
and I know it is easier for him to enrapture
a flower and pull it into a statement
that says how fragile time is
but glorious now—don’t you see how glorious
before the turning down of petal
the falling crisp departure of leaf
this is where I put my heart each day
for I make happiness
then watch it wither on some table,
he says this with his hunched shoulders.
And I understand how we each capture
this golden vibrant life
with a different grasp
and as much as I want him to pierce
my soul and see me naked and unadorned
I also want to stay here
pure and only me
for I have not even ventured all the way
and can only take tall truth
in increments that fit my skin
and even then I look at the bubble that bursts
can this be mine?
a repost to remember what is still true
I am just a traveler looking for a home, finding I carry it around with me, and sometimes it's just too heavy.
[This message has been edited by Martie (01-31-2004 10:41 AM).]