stretching this space
here between ribs,
expanding the horizon
with breath –
i can wait
while the world turns
and turns again.
i can wear this skin
inside out
in the rain
folding and
unfolding my love
pushed paper thin
in the rough bark
of trees
while the sun
rises and falls
like the breath
of an animal
vast and warm.
i am no less
than the dark
between stars
my feet have tasted this –
i can wait.
i carried the dust of that place
on my feet, walked it here
with thanks for the journey
and stood long-shadowed
in the dew wet grass.
stood while the walking
settled to stillness
and the trees, popping
bergwind seeds, cackled
here – you are home,
you are home.
would it matter
if i let me
run your hands
along my fault lines
let them find
that i exist
in breath skin, flesh and bone
because i know
you would take your shoes off
everyday to hear the sun rise
and is it enough
to live this world
knowing there’s a holy mountain
is it enough to live its shadow
and never seek its heights.
would it matter if i let me
run your words along my spine.
would we turn to matter
if i let me.
today the world keeps its secrets
shrouds it valley and hill in mist
leaving only the mountain tips
sunlit sentinels watching
for the turning of the light.
it is a long night drive
breath misting windows
in hard flung rain
headlights close in
illuminating only what i need
this bend
this tree
this cliff
this loose pebbled road edge
that drops into ravine
this bushbuck on light feet
leaving her spoor in the slip.
it is a long night drive
to fetch the girl child
to see the owl perched
on the yield sign
to yield to the soft darkness
of night.
of course they would come
holding bits of night
in dark shadows under white wings
that whisper low along the road
sighing across the rooftops.
they will find the moon before it sets.
beyond the hilled horizon
where it has already plunged
orange and silent behind the trees,
they will find the moon beyond these hills
where vast ocean horizons
wait.
it is hard to look into the face
of love never returned
hard to look away
hard to know what of
herself she has yielded
what of herself
she has set aside
to be here. today
there are only half sentences
she leaves her fingers
to walk the story
across the counter
between us,
picking at the wood grain.
of all the things she has surrendered
to make a life for her children
to keep her children alive,
her home
her country
the red mountains of the escarpment
each and every person
she ever knew before,
it is the loss of her children’s love
that steals life from her.
it is them never knowing
that she loves them
that slowly steals her life.
it is ok, she said
turning her face away
when they are older
maybe they’ll know
what i did for them.
maybe the will know.
and god i hope
that’s true.
please let it be true.
