I’m getting used to not being alone.
The space between things lighter,
Less weighted by my own clumsy translations.
For so long, the evenings have stretched like minefields until I tripped into bed,
Exhausted or exploded.
Now, they’re wine violet avenues and horseback sandscapes
Shuttles to Jupiter’s moons.
The past flows again free,
Through demilitarized zones and unarmed deltas,
Towards its natural destination.
A wonky half moon trembles, testing its nascent powers.
A lover’s tiff risen and resolved in the length of a two hundred metre street.
It’s a night to get things sorted in the beat of a bat wing.
You call me up, and I don’t respond right away.
Because the moon is so tender or because…. I’m in no hurry now.
I don’t need to make it right with everyone because….well,
It’s not my right.
No fingers will ever find the blame.
A young man leans from his shuttered moonlit window
For him, TV light and moonlight is all the same, except that
He clicks his best angle and makes the call
He was afraid to make that afternoon.
I want him to feels safe to speak the Truth
Like I do now.
But my thoughts for him are speechless, except that
the soft goodwill between him and I
Is bridged differently, more keenly
Now that you’re around.
Complex, deep and dark. Such universal truths about most folk : for him, TV light and moonlight is all the same. Such beautiful imagery: she rises on her rooftops like a pumped up ballerina. And then the hugely personal and so private: the evenings have stretched like minefields until I tripped into bed, exhausted or exploded. Rebecca, you are a master with words. You are playing an instrument sensitive, multi-sensorial, vivid. I can read your poem over and over and find more each time.
Thank you so much for reading it so deeply and for caring to do so.
Everyone is supposed to have some sort of gift. I think you have found yours. As above, the need to read and re-read, I have never felt that before. Amazing!!
Thank you so much Kevin. That means a lot to hear.