Rabbit and Rose
You see the way the
hills rise up and to
the left? There is no
distance between the
stones, they just hold
on to each other and
wait for the rain.
You show me the site of
your accident: how long,
how far away. We mark
off the distance in humid
stone-worn blacktop steps.
I need to hold you now
before I forget, before
the air turns clear in my
mind before you have the
chance to smile and turn
away. My arms are too
heavy at the end of the
day and the bolts have
loosened leaving my fingers
unattached and my wrists
and shoulders rusted in
July. My hair aches at the
roots and we count out 100
steps. That's how far the
car slid before ceasing to
be beneath the long arms
of an oak or a maple or
whatever the hell it was that
brought you to an abrupt
stop. I know what blood is,
how it tastes - iron or copper -
salty and somehow elusive
as it slips out and away,
thousands of cells like
hand-shaped angels trying to
wrap fingers around arteries trying
to stop their life from
returning to the earth.
For a short time we lay
on our backs so I can
see the world upside down
and in your head—what it was
to hear the stones singing
the ancient songs; something
classical, maybe, something
like thousands of note
shaped angels popping in
and out of existence like
thousands of angel shaped
bubbles. Maybe a music
box, soothing and comforting
like your father sitting on
your bedside in the early
morning; like tomato soup;
like thousands of angels
shaped like your mother
tsking and worrying and
wondering if you made
your bed. Maybe like
snow or rain or summer
air written in braille on the
back of your hand,
upside down, so you can
read it on your back
or in the dark without
a flashlight or the moon.
And I need to hold you
now before I forget
what blood feels like
around your bones, your
ribs, flowing into your
heart, before we remember
that our future is just
a blank page where no
more words are etched
onto bare skin. Here and
here is where I wrote
your name for the last
time. Here, but not
here, only in the
blood now, that tastes
like lavender or cypress
or whatever the air tastes
like in late July. And
before I forget your face
I remember the rocks
and the stars and
the air and the dusk
all around us. making
mountains our of mountains
turning memory to mist
weaving you and I
together in the tapestry of
a story about a summer
br />
that neither of us
will remember at the
end of the threads. So I
point over your shoulder
beyond the grass where
metal found its resting place
and I show you how to
hold the wheel when
you spin out of control.And I whisper to
just enjoy the ride like
the raindrops who
never despair when
they stop falling or
the stones who never
learned to count so they
have no sense of time or
distance, just a vague
notion of light and dark
and the deep feeling of
existence warm and
thick, like the air
between us as you
smile and turn away from me.