What if I left you alone, if I did not ask, if I walked an aisle in a different store…with someone else who was not there, and I wrote something for them and played it on the piano?
Life and the pull of it…its glorious smells, the two of us laying on a bed staring at a ceiling screen playing a rerun of a child turning one way and then the next – looking for a hand to hold.
Yours or mine…voice story book confusions about a girl in a carriage rolling herself into a forest to be raised in the shadow of wolves who cannot among themselves decide to eat or let her go.
It is for no small reason that you are an iron woman – of consequence that you can look like you are here, but really be over there trembling on an island, counting waves and watching them disappear.
The bird in your hand pants and struggles against your thumb and index finger, and the sun never seems to set and the day never seems to end and you wish that the petal of a certain orchid was not so rare.
The tumid and the smooth is waiting isn’t it? And it would take a whale swallowing the sea to reveal enough land for you to walk away from the prison of your anxiety to the mainland of a different destiny.