Wednesday, March 1, 2017

the heart slips backward, remembering, remembering

What are you made of
that massaging your bare back
eases my tensions,
relaxes my body, calms
the busyness of my heart…

What are you made of…
what does your body release
underneath my touch
that floods my own senses
with the peace I mean for you 

Sometimes it feels as if those 20- 25 years of intense circumstances should suffice to say I've lived quite a lot, to easily declare a certain range of moves, experience, and things to expect. 
But there we are in our well-lit room, I'm out of the bathroom all conditioned which won't exactly work without a proper blow-dryer. I sit beside you, crack a joke, the tangles of my hair less tangled than my life, the knots, the split ends... I don't like you to see me with the towel wrapped around it like some petit Tutankhamun, I only want you to see me at my best. 
And there you are, silently rising, going to the bathroom, returning with my paddle brush in your hand. So kind of you I say and reach for it. That is not kindness you reply, sit down beside me, turn me around...My darling doll, you say and I feel the brush slowly descending through my scalp, its tiny bristles grooming the heart of this animal. 
Deep in the heart of the shortest month, I understand I've lived quite nothing, I understand I'm hungry, greedy and naked, and your hands call to me in little brushing grips, in those extra seconds your fingers rest to feel the blood pulsating on my back. I understand that until now I've known nothing about love _ 

1 comment:

Rick Forrestal said...

OK, stop!
I can hardly bear to read these.