The morning starts like an incision.
Beneath her eyes, ribbed like
cockle shells, is a
cackling chattering a clamouring
that imprints some briny scene,
a local deposition
from the night before.
Except now the projection
allows no teasing-out of meaning.
The pattern condensed on her field of vision
cannot be traced -
never at rest,
the particles vibrate
in vicious autonomy. She is still unsure
whether she is seeing spots
or hearing thoughts made manifest.
The morning has suggested itself fully,
serrated on the edge of the curtain.
Her effusion has no such boundary.
She is locked in the cusp
between the prickling night
and today's deadening life.
In any case, the reality or unreality
of her vision - if you can call it that -
is of little import. Frothed forth
are a thousand memories,
already growing painful,
like pearls, the minute before
the earth is deep and eyes are wind chimes in these days when the wind touches people like phantom limbs.
shapes of rifles or limbs appear like heads on sticks
hands break out in salt and sweat like dead sea scrolls and calfskin
skies are black like the first day of creation
your mottled painting of soft fists blooming leaves cloth hands are shadows of unlit candles
they illuminate death in an eyelid
they can’t taste
the light of G-d
how it entered the earth
soaked through it
unable to find a way out.
I long to trace the outline of your face
like a blind Tiresias,
search the creeping warmth of your blushes
for the pattern of the waves that day,
when time coiled back on itself like a sea anemone,
repulsed at the tenderness of our shared years;
when we cared for nothing but the tickle of the spilling
breakers on unmanicured toes,
and the sun-stippled swarm of colours behind our lids.
I long for the time before our thoughts
collided on the horizon line,
before we drifted out like flightless birds to sea.