Thursday, December 16, 2010

Where the Spirit Meets the Bone

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.


Amy said...

oh. my. Amy.

The imagery in the poem is striking. I'm in love with your words.

Jennifer said...

wow amy this poem is amazing! totally loving your words.

Jamie said...

So glad you are "back."

And again, your words amaze me.

amy gretchen said...

beautiful amy. i had no idea. you amaze me.