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| Interpretation Illustration (CS6) April 2018 |
I love the way you
make my hair stand on end.
I love the way you
make my eyelashes bend
as I close them for a second
like flower petals in the wind.
And the way my eyes dilate
when you softly
press your fingers
against the pin cushion
that is my heart.
The way you mold it
Like it’s a work of art
You cherish it while you carry it.
Gently hold it in your palms.
The way you patch
the wounds
and give them warmth.
Cause it has experienced
liquor-filled evenings
with cruel emotional dilapidation,
Guest starring
Spiraling Grief
and Agitation.
And featuring an
unfamiliar guest,
Invisibility.
And you just keep guessing,
but, oh why that girl is smiling?
And why is she using her hair
and her fingers
and her mouth
and her words
as outlets for expression?
And the girl will put her tips to her forehead to
block all the voices
until it becomes silent.
Like the hallow.
Like the wind.
Like marshes.
And yet, that silence
is something peaceful.
Beautifully displayed
on countertops
and refrigerator doors
In the form of
important dates
and numbers
and photos
of the person
you used to be
way back when.
But you remember it,
and you remember why
and it makes you smile.
Like taking a breath.
Like the way the city
feels when it snows.
This silence, it grows.
It doesn’t feel painful.
It’s white noise.
It’s something important.
Because she doesn’t
want to expose her sorrows.
Because she doesn’t
want to disclose
the things that haunt.
You take away the fears
You excavate
the deepest caves
And seek to vanquish
the darkness
The anguish
Shadows that
have disguised
themselves as toys
Aligned neatly next to
poisons on the cabinet shelves.
You make my heart silent.
You shudder me at my core.
The door has swung
wide open
as you use
your fingers to prod
at the doughy areas of my heart.
To make a loaf of bread.
A savory treat.
“To fill your heart,” you say.
To make sorbet.
Something sweet.
“To chill your soul,” you say.
You take the fruits of my grief
and blend them with ice.
You mix them.
You fix them.
With syrup, you dress them
In lace.
You caress them with grace.
And you serve my heart,
you serve my heart as a dish of love.
As a loaf of bread
baked to perfection.
Warm.
Soft.
Alive.
You serve my heart
alongside your own
and recommend
that I listen to the music
they make when they’re together.
You talk of the way
they danced
Atop the open flame
in the frying pan.
You made an entree to complete the meal.
“For your love,” you say.
For, My Love.
I say.
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