you are quiet
the darkness of a waning moon
on a drizzling spring night
when everyone has gone home
but the deadlines will arrive soon,
and I
am not yet done
with this work
this slow song
like a ballad
between us -
I must admit
to singing many songs these days
not always sure
with whom I am really singing.
in my mind they dance and blur
because of course
none of them are real
for all that their touch stays
long after they've gone -
after I've declined.
reluctantly, for
life calls to life
and yours
has always called to mine.
He said it was my nature.
not to be fickle,
but to fall in love.
be warned, he cautioned me.
it is love you love
not the container -
the music that draws you
more than the particular instrument.
I like to listen.
but I like to sing, too
and i can only sing
one song at a time
broken though it may be
with these long silences.
So tonight I hum this song
to you.
i listen to your quiet
(almost, i can hear your breathing
in the cars spraying puddles over the sidewalks
and the wind nuzzling up to the quickly-closed-shut windows
and the ginger cat stretching besides the
cooling stove)
and i find myself wanting
to send you a caress
like an angels wing
softly brushing across your cheek
a presence at your back
there, just there.
yes, you can lean.
a caress - to
paint my finger across your forehead
the way my mother once did
to put me at ease
on those nights long ago
before you graced my path
before I knew i didn't know...
ah, to offer that warmth
of that large woman's embrace
such softness!
of course i knew (had to know) her tears;
but her fingers on my forehead
that magic paintbrush against time
drawing a world of savages and dancers
mysterious familiarity
binding all this craziness
towards something called meaning...
listening to your quiet tonight
i would reach across space
to - i don't even know where! -
a pub? a dinner table? a desk?
a bed
and give you a sweet caress
a caress
so much sweeter
than a text:
'hey there. soon. xx.
x.'
but of course, these days,
we both know what we mean (do we?)
in these quiet refrains.
though honestly
it is not my mother's hands
that would touch you,
cup your chin
trace the curve
of your jawline
finger then nail
biting the edge of your
skull.
i suspect my hands
which mostly rest on keyboards
were really made
for lovers.
and muses
are poor lovers
for lost singers
such as i.
So, perhaps,
the caress of an angel's wing
will have to do.
