I picture you in your kitchen. Wheeling in front of the oven roasting vegetables with olive oil and rosemary. Your little hands picking up, putting down, mixing. a laugh like a sucking in of air in stuttered gulps. Everything sitting on the lip of the counter just so at eye level to meet your chariot height. Almost pointed shoulders raised so the hollow between the shoulder and collar bone runs deep. Most of what I know of you you said in small clues, the disclosure of a poem here and there, the undisclosed, fitting between the words, living in the eyes. We sip whiskey at that ball and claw table and the mountain watches these two children playing life through the eye of those big windows in your living room. Next door in the extended household, the limbs of another friendship just waking, yet part of this conversation. Our hands are always holding each other. In my memory there is no emptiness, no forgotten things to bare the molecules you spread here. These are the pearls Im now tripping over for my tears cluster themselves, lasso around my ankle, to move I have follow them into your absence. You are the mountain I have to climb now. - for Ross Mullins
Posted on: Tue, 16 Dec 2014 06:59:25 +0000
Trending Topics
Recently Viewed Topics
© 2015