It was over dinner,
certainly red wine, a simple risotto.
You were talking to me
about your father’s tears
how they spill so easily
and the reason why,
empty shoes lying next to a well,
a memory of tired summer grass
and I was looking past you
at the jade plant on your windowsill in a pot
next to the basket holding three oranges,
an avocado overripe in it’s skin.
The evening sky
beyond a complicated tangle of stems and leaves.
While you were talking,
pouring wine, explaining
I thought only of what lies beneath
the connective tissues, the muscles and tendons,
a blackness deep below our naked nerve endings.
The place where we all remain untouched.
Even after I have forgotten
the bark of your black dog
my middle name
what month or day it is,
I will carry in my mind
the vein of this particular conversation
a thread, connecting us to each other,
to your father and his suffering,
an echo from that deep hole,
to the place where the spirit meets the bone.