Ripe Red Fig
The wounds took me there
...into a red landscape of seeds
millet-white at the mouth
like the inside of a ripe fig
torn into half at its meridian.
Asymptote - why would anybody invent a word like that?
Was he staring at railway tracks?
Or at the sky ripped apart from the earth?
Or at the borders between hearts...yours and mine?
I finally got rid of the mole on my neck.
You'd held it in your eyes for so long
that it clung to me like a legacy you'd left behind.
Cryotherapy took care of it. Liquid nitrogen has its uses.
Beautiful roses in the garden today.
Mild sunlight, mild breeze, mild pink roses.
If I could, I'd pack all this into a card
and send it to you like a farewell gift.
And I know you'd stow it in that box of yours
where life gleams in moments and dies in years, where silence grows like a crack
and expands to a line between your lips and mine - asymptote.
Where soft tissues crumble to oat-like flakes beneath cardboard lids.
But of course I can't pack away a garden.
Like I can't pack away a beginning that didn't really begin
Like I can't pack away the sight of a ripe fig
gaping open like a fresh red wound, lying askance in spaces between us.