The Shape of Silence
A tired approach to the door:
Burial exits raise old entrances from the ground,
Having passed from point to point, like dots all in row,
Pre-work alarm clocks, parking-garage portals, post-day-partum…
the squeezing hinge unanswered in the depths of the house.
You hold my upturned palm, three limp hands,
Together, a coeternity forsaken by parted ways.
Communion by drips from the skyward bag
Watering downward wires, growing and grafted onto hospital sheets,
Rooting up from entwined feet on the bedding.
You grasped me once; that bed sweetly undergrown for us.
Only the monitor can hearken the memory,
Of blushing caducity; atrial tempos keep the past:
Beeping contractions, but also, flooding diastole, flat—
television’s familiar light, falling unbalanced on the couch.
Icy roots break off their ornament,
My snow-in-summer stem loosens again in convalescence.
Winter’s vale, long, now cloudless meadow,
And there you are, where you were still, awaiting me in the healing thaw—
the last of winter’s chill tearing at the window, a testimony on glass.
Again at the door, I’ve seen this lonely site before.
The steps where I sent you out,
A poisoned heart in new-found health.
A chance to steal back life; the bed you wanted still, now too small for two:
“I lost too much, I need to try and find it again”
If it should turn to winter, and the breeze to gale,
Can I endure it all again?
Where did I send you in that wind? Is your hair a yellow hazel, like I remember?
Tell me, my auburn regret: Shall I awake this time from frozen slumber?
the beeping alarm springs me from bed—I am too late.