conversation with strangers
I looked at you down through the Reflection on the water A rippling an eternity of light in a silver Pearlescent glow merging with sunlight if only I had turned away from the mirror I would have seen you completely Like the cut that hurt so extremely I paled in pain and hunched myself over The cold tiles of the kitchen floor Perplexity of how the skin breaks so easily the cut that however deep gradually Scars over Until one evening holding my palm up to the light I no longer hurt Is this what they call pleasure I would look at you from my inside out My outside in and when I asked you What you thought of the crack in my palm the one who answered was a stranger My voice like sea foam Coming to the shore More destined to float than to be heard I felt the pulse in my neck and the pulse In my heart and suddenly recognised I Was a body lying next to a body That held no map when There is so much left to see How did you come to hold fruit in your hands The first on the trees I’ve seen the plums ebb and flow Freshness and oldness Bloom like the petals you seek to touch Seen the colours deepen in the sunlight Form on the flesh while I hold my fingers crossed Tightly hidden in the nave of my neck I would think you a great ceramicist With your ability to shape and mold To dig you fingers in just enough to create A curve rather than a crack When the lights turned red the man Talked to me as we crossed the street He had the bluest eyes that's what I remember the most the bluest eyes He asked to draw a picture of me I stood right there on the other side Of the crossing and let him draw A picture of me in silence I watched the other side of the street The lights turn red to green And cried at how I could be in once Place then the next He asked me why I was crying Crystals on my cheeks he drew The finest pearls soft from the clam Forever clinging to my skin and I scrubbed at my face while I walked back To you clutching the drawing close to my chest When you asked me what I had I said oh nothing I went to pack my bags Dusk came in a milky glow and you said you’re going I’m not staying You asked why I told you there was no map On your back but I created one on my palm You didn’t understand it I didn’t expect you to But I left and now longer think of you And I hung the drawing next to my bed I trace the scar on my palm And wonder now where it will take me.
a poem. written watching the shadows on the path. the movement. forming the time with shadows. a poem. written. perhaps it will change.
