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.
4 comments:
oh. my. Amy.
The imagery in the poem is striking. I'm in love with your words.
wow amy this poem is amazing! totally loving your words.
So glad you are "back."
And again, your words amaze me.
beautiful amy. i had no idea. you amaze me.
xo
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