November 07, 2021



After the words, the crisp air

seemed to breathe upon me

like the sky left behind the

wings of young birds…

and I didn’t know

what to think about

the wound that surfaces

just beneath the frequencies

of what we felt.

…it’s not discernible; mostly…

it stays in a place

I am required to visit,

but sometimes

when the sun is shining

and the shadows fall long

I unfold and feel the fullness

of my own retreat.

…and I think about the sound of elephants

walking with splendor and glory,

how if they fall they cannot get up again…

the gloaming gravity plays like a Russian novel,

tragic with frigid endings.

One must feel these things with their own heart,

not with art or poetry

but with early winter mornings

when the light imprisons herself…

when the hummingbirds

look through the window at you

with sadness in their eyes,

or when the red-winged hawk

lands beside you

and the wolf walks with you…

and you realize your stillness

has become you.

…after the words I realized

you’ve changed,

too many faces to

remember one,

the miles you’ve flown, and the spiraling angels

who follow you,

ah, but I would be one,

to fly forth with abandonment,

to follow your unbroken sense of journey

like a lustful lover from Dante’s hell.

I can still feel the edges of you,

how sparsely you allow me in.

…and yet there is this unspoken need between us,

like the sun

and the moon

and their reflection

upon this broken glass...


 Poem © Gesso Cocteau

Photo © Jessica Tremp

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