Dec 2. 2010
Say these bones were stones,
would my mother leave her bed
for a wooden box covered with dirt
and sealed with cement?
You were a caricature
of yourself; drawn
with tears when you stood
at the door, asking
me how it happened. You did
not become what I could touch,
until you rubbed your chest
against mine on the couch.
You took me out of the house, leaving
behind my sisters, who were filling
the house with the names of my mother.
On the road, everything
was still made of water:
the cars, the motorcycles, buildings.
You told stories, your voice died trying
to find routes into my ears. You dipped
a handkerchief into my eyes, drying
away bitter memories
with your kindness. A truck moved
towards us, its headlights, bright
like morning’s flesh. You told me to keep
my eyes on the sleek covet; I saw
a reflection of light
run through it briefly. The truck
went into a dark distance. You asked
if the reflection lasted
forever. Your lips spoke to my cheeks:
I stood by the roadside like a tree,
You got smaller and smaller,
and you became the darkness
that helped me to see.