Bread in its bag, day-old
baby blue speckled like snow
across a field of wheat
sticking to the tips only
the Great Plains and the great
of such a space, vast and flat
this stillness, this morphing from life
to shelf life.
Once, I was without
this conundrum of memory
of our lower halves
hands holding my hips in that flowery dress
drinking barley wine in a hotel room
shades of mauve
and time drifting mauve to
gray, this precision of colors
that precede disaster, the sky
of a few twisters
of a wheat field
that rain being cold, dress dripping heavy
onto concrete steps.
And, since the beginning, roots uprooting.
young, climbing through shallow dirt. My sky so distant
a blue, the spark a cross-handling of cables, dusk fire sitting like fog
like us in our twenties at nightfall on a terrace
in Buenos Aires. Darkness a shield, you behind it
with another girl singing our favorite songs
like they were only songs.
Children in the narrow streets
squealing like bats, splitting the night into crystals.
We see our reflections
only our former selves instead
only the dog tired and smiling on a cold marble floor.
Now, who is dreaming? Who is lost
with us, dreaming, waiting
to dream or to lose,
one body in the quiet plains,
for how long?
A loose wire dangling from a pole, half disconnected.
The wind, dangerous as fire, dangerous with fire.
Love isn’t a word, I know, but
is this true?
Is this true? What am I saying
I can live with
Grist | 2013