The Last Episode of Television Playing on Rewind 

A Elle 

My thoughts 

 

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

 

You 

In California, 

 

Always patient & waiting  for me in Casablanca while I write this postcard on Mexico time . 

 

Addressed to: 

 

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. 

 

Dear                

the sweet ones that lay together now, quiet  ,  strong  ,  and resting. 

Like twin columns, pedestals, fallen in the storm. 

 

Or,  put simply, 

    just

        like — 

             girls. 

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 

 

I see 

 

You on the airplane alone and strong, 

 

I see 

 

You in New York city, singing 

                John 

                    Lennon’s 

                            song 

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 

 

Landing 

     a staring role in this opera of individuation, where The Body Keeps the Score 

&

My character,  returned to Hollywood under the disco ball, 

Dancing; 

        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 blooming! 

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. 

 

 

(Live,

Love  ,  

        fall apart,  

         postcard heart. )

 

Always becoming, 

 

 

Be, 

 

It’s all so beautiful, so beautiful to me.