Sunday, December 11, 2016

What we share/d

I thought of you today, 
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 
- 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. 

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