A Little Synchronicity

B"H

News

News of your desiccation
reached me yesterday, already
in a state of mourning from
burying you twice - once
when you stepped off the edge
into a love of mazes and starry skies
and again, when you dropped
with your anchor down to the bottom,
saw visions and were never
to be heard from again.

Now you've withered.
There is only so much
juice in the cosmos, only so many
pinpoints of light falling.
And after a while, you can't
suck up the rain. Or dissolve.

News of you
cracking in the chest reached me
today as I spent the morning
painting my face in the mirror.
My eyes I painted to look like
your eyes that you blind
every day. And since you've come up
from the deep, I see under the sea now.

My love, this mending.
I hear you slowly
taking on molecules from the air.
I see you swelling
in infinitesimal portions, mere patches
of deeper colour. The ground
is wet for you. Later,
there will be juice.

And you can draw me, then,
in your image. With eyes.
Radiant skin. With stories
of cities under the sea
and a mouthful of stars.
This mending, my love.

(c)2005 Kyla Pasha