____afterwards
…afterwards
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
Leave a comment
Comments will be approved before showing up.
