‘Permanent disequilibria threaten’
(not clouds on the horizon
or lightning seen through
your forehead
or the tide rising higher
than you think it used to
but significant perturbations
of your spine’s
timeline and a strange taste
in your mouth). Now you
turn to me with that
shattered look you’re a past
master of, your dress creased
from too much sitting,
your fingers crossed in
anxiety. It’s the age
of middens again,
mountains of shells
from which the flesh has
been filched, and what’s
left of your blue eyes
berate me.
But what can I do?
I ate my fill long ago.
The pain passes. I see
you again as you
want to be seen, the heat
from your body
cogent,
and instantly I remember
how you tore your clothes
for fear of
the geography of lead
ships under stars
and rehearsals
of icebergs.
These days I hear you
singing in half
familiar tongues
before I see you
rising through bodies
not yours, the weight
of the trains
you have traveled in
not holding you down.
I gape at your effrontery,
back from the dead with no
qualms. Perhaps
you have a chance to
live again. It has only
been me
holding you back. Come,
put your hand here
in the fire and be free.