|
Of the South |
The plane lifts-off,
and another goodbye
to the patchwork landscape
seamed with dirt roads and highways.
To the green of the South,
to the blue of the Skies.
I relearned
your awkward grace.
Your hair, longer than mine
falling over your face.
Pink lidded, red lipped,
we lay curled like clenched fists.
Limbs tangled, heads resting.
I couldn't tell your body from mine.
And I know someone right now
feels the way I do.
Someone bit her lip at the airport gate
because she promised not to cry.
Your mother told me
that part of you died.
Please don't forget
the part that survived.
A week
of Oscar-winning monologues
that neither of us could remember
until we got high again.
I asked you everything
I ever wanted to,
you told me everything
you never did.
I traced
the patchwork landscape
of your body
seamed with scars and lines.
Within the Heart of the South
and the Soul of the Skies.
Falling into the wordlessness
we never needed to speak.
A touch, a glance, a motion,
any or all sufficed.
Baptized in your one single tear
lifted to my lips and tasted.
This is my body, this is my blood,
and you are my salvation.
The goodbyes never get easier.
I'll see you soon though.
I'll search the patchwork landscape
seamed with your blood and mine.
From the Sadness of your Mouth
and the Sorrow of your Eyes.
copyright 2004
Laura
Nye |
