Photo by Joel Filipe on Unsplash
She Comes. She Goes. She Comes.
She disappears
takes with her
something created together
I move forward to where she stood
the absence of her presence
leaves behind a vacuum
I am left to hold the shape
of our encounter its hue green
against the blue of the sea
the memory of her dress
I reach to touch
but it moves
not a phantom
an invitation to follow
I silently call
onto the blue and green of the memory
both dissolving
and reappearing inside me
she keeps coming back
drawing me
into something ancient
come, she says,
with an unclear gesture I do understand
I hesitate
miss the disappearing
blue and green of her dress
tall with a quiet step brushing
against the ground
I chase it
again and again
I give you my story
writing with my bare feet
a poem of the ground
It is me who comes and goes
appears and disappears
I am not done,
she says,
maybe someday
we'll sculpt the us
with our eyes.
On the Fence
I sit on the fence.
Watching.
Sometimes moaning.
A tall wide fence.
I sit with comfort.
On the fence.
I watch the bombs
and the bullets dance inside,
hint of dust and smoke lands
on the fence
on my clothes
it clouds my tears
my thoughts.
I look at the edges of truth
the edges of justice
the edges of prayers
holding my guilt as a treasure
a trophy
which I display and write a short poem about.
I remember to feel guilt
make sure the shame colors
the walls of the fence
I watch the dead buried
the unfound stories abandoned
concrete heaps become art
I sit on the fence.
I notice the fuzzy air
the dust blurs the photos I take
while I feel guilt and shame
and proud of feeling it
I notice that I am not the one dead
In the collection
she finds a key,
a bag of candy,
for the road before leaving with
a small suitcase, hinges rusted,
carrier of mementos.
It laid, the suitcase,
small, stashed with others
all shades of ash
old-time clasps click and squeak
opening and locking, guardians,
words in frames, black and white,
faces dissolve into yellowed backgrounds
stories remembered and forgotten,
on tarped tent floor,
she finds the black comb
runs it through her long black hair,
dessert sand and memories rain
on the tent's floor
she sweeps them with her small hand,
the sand and her memories