I seem to be always leaving. Never a homecoming for me. Never an everafter. Haven’t managed the till death do us part bit.
Today I was looking at the exquisite photos of the baby girl of my friends. He used to be a love of mine, in another life. His wife is a treasure. A true friend. And their baby girl is an element of dreams, a creature of light and laughter that removes any and every sorrow I ever imagined carying in my curls.
It made me think of permanence, those photos. How she will grow and grow, and I will fade and fade, and the love we will have for her will never diminish. It made me realize I do not have that in my own life.
Instinct and love beyond the mind? No.
I am off again, days here and there, films to pursue, books to launch, people to interview, deserts and waters to visit, suitcases to schlep around and curse, strangers on vehicles of movement to befriend and then semi- forget.
At least, I have poetry. And you, anonymous cyberspace dweller.
Here is an old old poem I wrote.
All that may not happen
i may never know who you truly are
or what paths of secret devil
schemes and voodoo magic
brought your face
to my smile
i will not retrace the journey
to this gift of your arms
and i may never sleep till death
by your laboring flesh
but for the promise of pleasure
in your cadence by my side
at all the motion
repressed or broken wild
this promise of soft vapor after
is worth a thousand words
of a debt i now
i owe you lines of kisses
and poems of inconceivable wealth
i offer the
sacred nothing i can offer you
fingers to clasp
silence with every morn’s dew
a memory of
my calm breath in the night
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