I remember very well
my life without you. It wasn't
that long ago.
Then you were part of
a course that changed the
course of my (then) coarse life.
And from a woman on the edge
of my life, one page at a time,
small changes. You were center. Light and wisdom:
You were my Luciente. And I got
angry. Blood in my eyes as I closed
the book and all else opened up.
(or so I thought. Had I known
there was so much yet to experience
if only I knew how much I didn't know)
(then and now)
And so I fell for you, incredibly going
higher instead of going down fast.
I was wrapped by a new type of hard loving.
How could I be sure, however,
of the ways you were showing me
what big girls are made of?
I was not a girl (though some would argue) and I am not
one still, but we have so much in common.
How do you explain a man with the longings of women?
Suddenly, you relinquised your (so we wish) heavenly,
abstract, virtual, untouchable position
of the writer, the name on the page, and allowed me to real-ize you.
I broke into your life. My soul has
reached to yours and touched it and I saw a cloud of butterflies
flying away home.
What a bluff. Even yet not ripe, quite unprepared
I wanted to go and see and smell and listen and talk.
I asked clumpsily. You answered gracefully.
You taught me about the wind, the oysters, the
Cape, you shared warmly, you made me certain why.
You showed me yourself - manual gear and cranberry juice.
I danced (not the eagle to sleept) in your living room.
I was in awe, exposed, you laughed out loud.
Ira came and I understood why again.
So I left, without any pictures of us
at that historic moment. (for me, at least, I have
them in my mind).
I felt happy and dumb at once for forgetting
and in doing so I felt I had just paid
the high cost of living (you live, you learn).
Antecipating, I looked ahead and the penny
dropped. No angel came to talk to me but I saw
my mission unfolding.
You helped me lay some brand
new cobblestones on the way I decided to
tread. In a way, a tap on the back and the go ahead.
I started (again and too late) sleeping with cats.
They made me warm and I cried when the Oboe went silent.
I remembered Efi and Xena, and all the cats I left in Brazil.
The details, however, have different colors now
The words I read sound more like your voice
And the future smells, sounds and looks
a bit more like hope.