and in this story, as in all good stories, there is a ghost called upon to tell the truth.
I can’t tell this story the right way now. I know too
much more. Makes past something apart from me.
could’a been me. that much, yes, I can see.
(I confess, I like how I see) (a better bowl arrives)
there is a desire to connect. isn’t that obvious?
mutual. her picture in his hands.
no, didn’t then all understand (appreciate) what
those feelings meant. all filled up, bright inside.
attraction meant exactly that, like a planet and
a moon. something round. easy
without a thought.
we wouldn’t always feel as now, more than memory.
sometimes when, forever just seemed natural.
no end in sight.
hand in hand.
and now. bigger than.
in absence then, my heart will speak for you.
so dear the conversation, I cannot be away.
here, two legs, one for the each of us.
I am more grounded thus. like cradle Earth.
good heart. good sky.
thus was it made, and meant to be.
we are joined.
she sat beside the lake,
was that a smile on her lips?
but it’s a lake, not the ocean,
he said. foolishness stuck
to his skin. like memory.
but see, how close the stars
are here? one of heaven’s
gates. her response.
yes, he said. then lets us
be the moon.
how close can two stars be?
this much, two fingers close.
one to the other one, is one.
ty wg nov/pm
sometimes it’s to look at a painted tree
without looking away
unblinking reveals what goes blind
yes, maybe I’ll change my face
today, be someplace else instead
another life, a different street.
all those memories will be
painted over. forgiven,
water lapping against the hull,
left to drift free of lovings
not even Autumn would disagree.
My half-sister Ione. Beautiful. She held me as a child, her distinctive braids.
When parents parted ways Ione returned to father’s side of the family. Lost to me.
If somehow you are reading this – hello No period. hello
Ceramic rendition done by Robert Coates, a multi-talented odd sheep of the family. He did watercolors, oils, ceramics, wood carvings, sailed on tall masted wooden ships to Alaska. Died too early in life.
the sky is inside a shell,
earth too and mountains, the least of them.
rivers aswell and oceans and fish and balls
of rice. all shells. this chair, this book
I read, the very light in the air. that hat,
cousin to your brow, also a shell.
pleasing the way our fingertips feel that
texture just below our beaks. it’s only
that sometimes we forget how fragile the
face, how easily misplaced but then
rain forgives a lot. and when we awake,
new feather wings, and when we sleep,
sky is all curves.
curving beneath new-made wings.