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The Weight of Oranges My cup's the same sand colour as bread. Rain's the same colour of a building across the street, it's torn red dahlias and ruined a book propped on the sill. Rain articulates the skins of everything, pink of bricks from the fire they baked in, lizard green leaves, the wrinkled tongues of pine cones. Its' accurate the way we never are, bringing out what's best without changing a thing. Rain that makes beds damp, our room a cave in the morning, a tent in late afternoon, ignites the sound of leaves we miss all winter. The sound that pulled us to bed ... caught in the undertow of wind in wet leaves. I'm writing in the sound we woke to, curtains breathing into a half-dark room. I'm up early now, walking. Remember our walks, horizons like lips barely red at dawn, how kind the distance seemed? Letters should be written to send news, to say send me news, to say meet me at the train station. Not these dry tears, to honour us like a tomb. I'm ashamed of our separation. I wake in the middle of the night and see "shame" written in the air like a Bible story. I dreamed my skin was tattooed, covered with the words that put me here, covered in sores, in quarantine - and you know what? I was afraid to light the lamp and look. Your husband's a good builder - I burned every house we had, with a few words to start the flames. Words of wood, they had no power of their own. "The important" gave them meaning and humble with gratitude they exploded in my face. Now we're like planets, holding to each other from a great distance. When we lay down oceans flexed their green muscles, life got busy in the other hemisphere, the globe tilted, bowing to our power! Now we're hundreds of miles apart, our short arms keep us lonely, no one hears what's in my head. I look old. I'm losing my hair. Where does lost hair go in this world, lose eyesight, teeth? We grow old like rivers, get shrunk and doubled over until we can't find the mouth of anything. It's March, even the birds don't know what to do with themselves. Sometimes I'm certain those who are happy know one thing more than us...or one thing less. The only book I'd write again is our bodies closing together. That's the language that stuns, scars, breathes into you. Naked, we had voices! I want you to promise we'll see each other again, you'll send a letter. Promise we'll be lost together in our forest, pale birches of our legs. I hear your voice now - I know, everyone knows promises come from fear. People don't live past each other, you're always here with me. Sometimes I pretend you're in the other room until it rains...and then this is the letter I always write : The letter I write when they're keeping me from home. I smell your supper steaming in the kitchen. There are paper bags on the table with their bottoms melted out by rain and the weight of oranges. back.. |
