Wednesday, June 03, 2009

There’s been talk of you coming home.

There’s been talk of you coming home. So much has passed on since you’ve been away, so much has been buried in the deep and green beyond. I don’t mumble anymore. I no longer obsess over silhouettes and baby names. The lighting has changed. The landscape is only as reliable as a chalk drawing on the pavement. And then it always ends up raining anyway. But my greeting is always the same: I promise not to touch anything. I promise to be good. Mary moved away. Simon doesn’t visit anymore because Mary’s gone. He sleeps in tents in Asia and Africa now. But Julianne is happy. She has a baby. She has a man who loves her. She is a rare specimen of bird. I never expected to receive any letters from you. I read books, I played video games and learned to carve a cat into a pumpkin. Do they celebrate the miracle of death where you went? Do they smile with their eyes and dance with their hands raised to the sky? Did you hold your hands palm up to the sun to warm them too?

***

Take me to your silent movie. Lean out the window and pray for rain. I still have that night in the library playing on the radio. Bring the love you found with you to the old abandoned warehouse, the one where the lost can always be found. I found you. I crawled out of the sea and found warm dry land. I fell from the sky and found gravity in your backbone, in your prairie lips, in your many lives. The moment you started talking I forgot the way out. I forgot how to inhale smoke from a cigarette, I forgot how to cut a straight line. I forgot how to be practical and end all my sentences with the correct punctuation.

***

We started out as a simple folk song. By the time you left I couldn’t name the genre, but it was probably the blues.

***

When a caterpillar becomes a butterfly, all butterflies become poetry.

***

You found me in a broken place where the light barely reached my finger tips. You took me home to warm my hands and clothed me in your silent book of prayers. You talked of understanding, of painting the world in white. I never understood a single word of your mystery but it kept me lingering outside your door until I was home again.

2 comments:

  1. We started out as a simple...

    i love that!

    ReplyDelete
  2. lol oops, i guess i just have to post a separate comment.

    thank you ^

    ReplyDelete