how we split bread in two and thanked the heavens
for the assistance of flour and salt
how our palms became glasses, gathering rain
how over this time we left
all that belonged to us both, kept, let go of
our share, what we share/d/keep sharing;
-a birthday, mid-December,
like countdowns of Christmases
-a midnight dance that doesn't mark a new year
yet makes a promising start
-a conversation where I ask about the woman in your photo
come to know her later, because of the color in her eyes
-a theft of a balloon
when I smile, shiver at the fact that I stole
your jacket too, covered with it a July's late night ride
-a mother's love to turn over absences; a father gone too soon
and a tree that still bleeds leaves in his steps
- a swing, where you tell me about the images you've kept
under the bed, of half- covered breasts, massages, and a giggle still
warm and foamy in my ear
- a ride on a lion made of stone
stiff and rigid, it only moves when we command it
- a talk about how he, a replacement of your father
hides you away from the eyes, beats you after kissing
your mother
- a song about a woman whose lover
left her in the desert, blabbering
comprehensively
- a text message with a lot of hearts on my birthday
returned to you, kissed, on the mole that covers your cheeks
- a kiss, my first, probably yours too
young to remember, we had shared this
before the music, the cake, the songs;
in my memory, a rush and a red car dented where we leaned our backs.
No comments:
Post a Comment