Eighteen long years,
honeyed mostly, but singed by the fire of two people
who both believe and assert, sometimes too emotionally –
of nights silenced by desire and ire – Eighteen years. As many years
of life as when we first met, young and open. The years have burnt through
the wax, puddled into moats to protect the flame, but there is no
denying the strength of what we have woven, stitch-by-stitch, repairs
and patches, it shimmers with a life that we did not dream of when
we first kissed. Like a Buddhist pennant, this is a flag
in the wind, touching the earth,
reaching for the skies.
Anomie is… the slide of a lip
mirrored on the wall in the hustle of a mall
saying Where the HELL were you??
It’s emotion imaged in strange eyes
passing and pausing, shaking
an outraged ponytail on a rigid back.
And you see that, you don’t hear the timbre
of that familiar tremble or see the concern
in the unimaged brow. You read
in passing eyes Womenhatingheathens
and respond with Screw You
although you know you should just turn
reach for that hand knobbed with age;
the grasp as familiar as a shared history.
It’s the clamor
the need, the constant want;
I understand Vanaprastha
at forty, The-Hermit-in-Retreat,
I understand those that walk away,
not looking back; in this–
the cold sunshine through
decaying leaves–to think
of forging, binding, weaving,
when life is unhooking
with such a gentle swish...
Reach for the prayer beads,
one hundred eight
rudrakshas, hard brown knobs
slip around these fingers
hold me here. Turn
in a silent Om,
mindlessly, conciously, on.