Transparent Things
There it is then, my open wound,
eager for forgiveness.
It comes with age like brown spots
and silver hair.
Shouldn’t age bring more than
different colors to adorn the body?
I think it was meant to.
It just forgot.
Old age does that you know.
Too many things to remember here.
Both worlds demanding so much,
one to learn, one to remember.
Can’t we see each other
without wounds bearing grief?
There it is then, my hope for you
to find me and apply yourself
like a poultice to my wounds.
The rest of me is barren too.
Waiting for your arrival
with speed built of powerful engines
that groan loud from a piercing foot.
Downward pressure
never stopping even when floorboards are found.
If there was silence in these waters
my wound would dance open
and separate itself from all attackers.
Even this body.
It would look at you
in the orphaning light, diminished of features,
and lead you away to its place of sorrow.
It would ask you to lie down beside it
and wave goodbye
to the coiled currents that tug and pull
to separate us from ourselves.
It would hold your hands,
so masterful in their wisdom,
so mindful of their glory
that it would disappear inside.
In the future, someone,
a friend perhaps, would
read your palm and notice
a small line veering off in a ragged ambush.
Unchained from the rest
of your palm’s symmetry.
A lonely fragment, waving goodbye
to everything between us.
There it is then, my prayer for you
to close this wound
and draw the shades around us.
Deep, black solitude enfolding us,
the kind found only in caves
that have shut out light for the growing of delicate,
transparent things.
