Here having sat
so many times
she says:
“But oh –“
A pause, a place to put my head
“Wait, and what –“
Another moment gone,
another thought lost:
and what beauty
oh what horror
passing through.
If she could add them up,
but then why should she
flicking beads by
just to pass the time
into eternity.
“Here — no, here,”
she points,
a space in time
carved into crystal ball
“you were born in fire
and made of water
and those will last
long after you are dust.”
Forgetfulness
An overwhelming sense that there is something you forgot. Compounded over time, a sense that at the center of your life there is a large, unknowable absence.
The Alien
I dreamt of you at age 9,
but you were terrifying then.
You moved in the dark,
invisible limbs seething out of the mirrored closet.
I crept into my mother’s bedroom,
sliding under her sheets,
eyes tight, closed,
praying that you weren’t real.
I didn’t really dream of you,
at least, it wasn’t really you,
because you were never a dream I had,
or would allow myself to have.
Before you were here breathing, you were an ache.
We took you up to the mountains, and I couldn’t breathe,
thinking my chest would burst.
I slept for days in the desert.
Then, there were the months during which
you incubated inside of me,
a growth,
a grainy image on a screen.
We didn’t give you a name.
Until we did.
You grew in phases, the first
spent mostly asleep.
The second on fire with wanting.
The third, locked up during a plague
that half the world denied,
a constant thrum of fear.
Two weeks late, early in the morning,
you slipped out of me.
My voice was raw for days from the screaming.
You tugged at me for weeks after,
kept me sedated during long nights
of unreality.
Now as the sun comes through the windows
of our early mornings,
you smile at me.
I realize you are the nightmare
I never knew I longed for.
Remember
And sometimes, all we can do is try
to breathe slowly
and drink deeply
the sunlight.
We, and this moment, are all we have.
Remember us tomorrow.