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rome roses, spring 2015

***

when i stood outside the door, i held a rose in my left hand.

it is not to say that the rose was held by my hand by the door, or by my standing outside of it.

the two events happened concurrently, unaffected by the other.

my shawl draped on my shoulders.

my black dress made blue in an uncertain light.

i stood outside the door, dreaming in the shadows.

these hours spent with you. this time with you as though the world wasn’t ending. simplest things, made spectacular: speaking, laughing, eating. in a statement made by entwined bodies, we are reminded of the essential.

we stretch our arms, touch the sky with our fingertips.

then we sway, side to side, to music.

you call it electro-cumbia. it is neither of those things. it is layered, a cake. it is sweet and baked. my senses make a feast of it.

i close my eyes and let my obscured pupils follow the geometry i imagine with each underlying melody.

there are people who cannot see when they close their eyes. when asked to picture an apple, they see nothing. they cannot visualise it, make it red, shiny. they cannot conjure two green leaves to its perfectly curved stem. their minds are a blur of shadowy darkness. the idea of an apple materialises, but it never takes shape.

i am one of those who cannot see when they close their eyes. i learned this truth about myself the same way a person who is colour-blind realises there are no reds nor greens. the world informs them of their singularity, their peculiar trait, taken for granted.

i look down and purse my lips. it isn’t to judge, not in dreams.

you press the sun of your palms on my body. i inhale your skin — your skin a downy reverie, so warm to the touch. i run my fingers on your back, your chest rising and falling with every breath.

you close your eyes.

your eyes are the sky behind their eyelids.

what do they see when your body covers my body?

outside the door, my right hand hung by my thigh.

outside the door, my hair wrapped in a silk scarf.

i should use it to cover my mouth, breathe in through fabric, breath lingering on the fibre, but instead i bring the rose to my lips.

i wish i had taken a closer look at the mountains when i drove through them or flew above them. now they are gone, a memory, a blur. i know i saw them, i can sense their shape and form in my mind, there’s a hint of texture, even. the faded greens, covered in a film of dust from the earth burnt by the sun. but these mountains, they are gone.

memory, sight giving out on you.

blind becoming.

a photograph of the mountains cannot restore your sight.

it doesn’t burn your retina in the same way that movement does with sweeping grace.

there are no rustling shrubs in the frame and the birds are gone – were there any birds at all?

and who’s to say in which direction the clouds above them went, what shape they took when they finally disappeared?

i wish i had taken a closer look at the mountains.

i would’ve opened my mouth and closed my eyes, for a while.

how used i am
to you
in the way
that you
perpetually
renew yourself.

we give it some time,
but are pulled back to it,
the rustling of the leaves.

i enjoy whispering with you.

not to you, but with you.

the song that it sings.

we set sail, we prevail.

we do not knock on the door of the ocean, we wade in, or we plunge.

we can also wait.

i try to smile.

the smile confesses to a proof that has been orbiting, ambling over the ample surface of our temples (by our eyes), though we could also praise the divine in this space.

i try to smile for the smile that never falters within.

i never had a small mouth, you see.

we are born
heavenly
on this earth.

we have gone
across planes,
our paths beaten
by our hands,
drums in palms,
plains flourishing.

we have learned to walk
one step, relearned,
learned to breathe
one breath, relearned,
a collection of motions,
a celebration of chords.

we have revolved
around celestial bodies
with resolved valour,
solving the unknown
with new paths,
versed wise patterns.

we have leaned into
heat’s given opulence
with poise –
it rose before us,
it bloomed before us,
it calla lilied before us.

every day
we alleviate
to levitate in
the rediscovery
of uninterrupted space.

inhale.

a knotted me
twisted in a knot,
catching april’s snow
with strands of wool
draped over
the body,
the limbs,
the bones.

hold.

the knot is just that –
a knot,
or the looping
and twining of
two lungs caught,
fives lobes stuck
in a breath,
held.

exhale.

the knot unknots,
the course resumes
in spirited strings,
imbuing skin
with light,
melting the cold,
this silent nomad
that had paused
on my every edge.

surround me with
flecks and specks
of gold.

may they capture
the light that has
always been in me.

my spectrum
and the invisible.

the hunted
and the haunted.

i look at the sun,
but i am inside.

i think about how
it will set,
below the horizon.

if my eyes could
move and fold
with the skyline,
i would follow it.

i can feel the body shaking
from a rumbling within;
this is a body remembering,
a body knowing and
eager to begin, again.

oh, i know.

i let the hours pass.

one after the other.

they passed
and in their passing
they no longer were hours.

they became other measures.

wine, music.

a bit of this and that.

i let them pass with no words between them.

i watched them go,
vaguely,
in the blind spot
of my attention span.

i figured they needed a rest.

but they did not.

they yearned for recognition.

they wanted to be used.

“used.”

made good.

so i took all the hours back.

i lay them down side by side.

i gave them fresh sheets, soft pillows.

they became a minute –

one long minute
of sacred silence
for lost time,
found again.

pour toi, mon amour.

***

she took a small knife and cut a green apple into four quarters, then eight pieces. she placed the eight pieces on a cracked bone china plate. she brought them with her to the living room, where she sat on her beloved couch. her cat walked over, in his quiet, slow pace. she put a piece of the apple into her mouth. it tasted like onions. she put the piece back on the plate, and fell deep into the couch, under the covers and below the throw pillows. the cat climbed onto her shoulders, crept onto her chest. he curled up into a ball between her neck and her heart, and slept.