Le paradis n'est pas artificiel …

January 29, 2014


Your tall blonde model
mother, standing in
slantwise alpen light
at the kitchen sink.
Your tall dark Indian
father, far out hunting
or elsewhere driven
to drink and rebellion.
You had it all from both
of them; I did it all for you,
wearing your fatherís hair
and shadows, your motherís
bones and hunger. We ran
all their sepearate grievings,
made deepest forest paths
weaving their private ways.
We knew, only we children
knew them both; I think
even sensed their ultimate
demise as a couple, knowing
what was missing in each of
their eyes. One night we hid
in a dark doorway and watched
when your dad thrust a knife
into my familyís kitchen table.
You were unable not to look
like him to me after that.
I loved your muted milky glow
through coffee skin, lowered
gaze and lips held like your
motherís: like outdated maps
to an unreachable past kiss.

Posted by Delire at January 29, 2014 12:05 PM