You took my arm and I’ve worn the imprints of your fingertips since. The scooped indentations that I can touch to know they are not there. This stills my hand, closes my eyes. You sculpt me. And I don’t know if this is a remembrance or a resurrection. The voice I gave you says, you are here now. And in this ordinary morning, I am pulled from stone.
And often now, my mouth on your half-mouth, a blunt knife, the quick of you uncut.
You can’t explain, you write on water. But you have a genius for repair, the fissures filled with gold and polished. This is a broken thing, we are joined here. Is this then stronger and more precious? Less mundane? The scars gleam like a sickroom nightlight. It is a way of seeing.
They fly backwards, you say. They eat air.
And it’s nothing to do with anything, I don’t think. And the wooden step warm on the soles of my feet and the dusk strange and separate. Foreign.
A barefoot magician, you pull from the darkness, as if formed from the night, a fat purple fig.
Eat, you say, eat. The fig warm on your palm. And a finger laid on my mouth because I don’t speak, I don’t eat. But now, my tongue unbroken, I say, what is the question asking? It’s just practice.
The fig is split and spilled and I don’t think this happened, but already you are as familiar as salt.