CIGAR

I have lost the capacity 

for Art. But of course, 

unlike her 

I have never had the capacity for

sincere, unselfish tears

and honest Anger. Isn’t that

where it all begins?

I watch as the oblong of her mouth moves, 

I watch those lips that often part and give way

to a toothy grin. I watch those lips- intently- 

as they let forth words that speak of war, 

Of the unspeakable: 

31257 butchered and hospitals mined, 

lives torn asunder; families torn apart

In the bitter cold. 

And them that do it suffer nothing. 

She speaks of grief and defiance, of

ice cream in summer in a field of red viburnums.

So much to know, so little that can be known, 

but the daily miracle of revelation in that voice

that reads to me.  A voice that returns,

mercifully, having stormed out yet again as though

it were for the very last time. She laughs, and sunflowers

bloom. 

Am I needed? Will I ever be? I want more and am beset

By tears and yearning. No importa: the only thing to do

is to Wait.

 

One day, the Guernicas will cease to multiply.

One day, justice will be served.

One day, I will bear witness

with my own eyes, on her lips, 

at long last: Peace. Hakuna Matata.

 ECLIPSE

Between the sun and me stood the moon, as it does every so often. But I, who am named after the  Midday sun, had my loyalties chosen for me of course. Nonetheless, what was eclipsed was neither day, nor night: on this day we debated Food. Not recipes, nor keto diets. But whether

to starve, to feast, on fruits or on meat, what is permissible, what could be policed. That old Sanskrit word Dharma- both duty and divinity, that river of blood ironically named Daya…lo ‘tis the gods at our door at last, and nothing more shall remain 

blissfully Godforsaken.

Through

faithful repetition 

one seeks to find a way out of 

The disorienting miasma of the everyday- personal and political- 

while acknowledging 

that no such exit route may ever yield. 

Never mind: exhaustion, anxiety,

Shame: our balls of yarn, gifts from Ariadne, 

to unspool and to get on with the Minotaur slaying, clock's running, chop-chop, and to follow the thread back to her, 

escape Crete, and make love in the distant dark.

At last. 

In tears. The true measure of absolution: the permission

to grieve. 

As you kiss her shins- if she lets you- permets-toi de te 

DÉSINTÉGRER.