The Last Episode of Television Playing on Rewind
Bleeding under the table, I pinch the vein like a telephone line; the artery swelling and
I'm swallowing the words that won’t make it home to
Always patient & waiting for me in Casablanca while I write this postcard on Mexico time .
Las Dos /
The Two of Her ,
To: The one with the open palm ; scared by a cicatrix from where the Calla Lilly grows,
To: The one with limp wrist that dropped his ivory cameo.
the sweet ones that lay together now, quiet , strong , and resting.
Like twin columns, pedestals, fallen in the storm.
Or, put simply,
Two woman that I know, who together/alone made it through the war.
that’s us. (you know)
laying heavy on the daffodil floor .
Sharing words like jewelry and wounds like stones —
With healing backs and mending knees
Our history, a river of ink black hair running between us;
tangled over perfect bodies flecked with fireworks of white paint, broken glass ,
& heads faced sunny-side-up towards the smiling open ceiling
Where in the sky blue sky above me
You on the airplane alone and strong,
You in New York city, singing
With lips free & breathing the aria in overlapping tones
Exhaling : the memory of turbulence,
Inhaling : the journey is always home;
Cross-checked and cleared for
a staring role in this opera of individuation, where The Body Keeps the Score
My character, returned to Hollywood under the disco ball,
flowers in her hair & stolen shoes.
with such pretty hands & ink stained fingers reaching out to life like lovers do
& from the invisible center I explode
in curiosity, without conflict, without violence, in living violet hues
I’m in stitches!
I’m bursting at the seams!
It’s without the words ,
I sing —
The song of sweet compulsion to the tune of solitude’s own.
postcard heart. )
It’s all so beautiful, so beautiful to me.