During those perfectly ordinary nights,
like a piano medley sleeping
amongst the niches of the mind,
as easily as a lowering head upon a lap,
the sequestered story outstretches itself again:
it must have been hiemal outdoors
as they; family, like stars related only by
the need to find a purpose, amalgamated.
The air; aroma; atmosphere; all cerulean
and permeated even indoors like incense.
Inhaling, and one could inwardly claim that
the way in which the cold cooled, condensed, the chest
was what inhibited tears for this satisfaction of “Presence.”
It was during those nights that
he was her sun – long ago, when the flare,
like emotions, was much dimmer; tenuous –
when the slightest tilt could make winters colder.
Oh, and he was so silly – he must have been –
to weep, fearing the belief that they might be
amongst things ephemeral,
for sustaining such childish
gravity – that grounds heavier
things like hearts, guilt, and worry –
was as easy as lowering his head upon her lap;
slightly tilted like the branches of a tree,
breaking into eternal fractals of tens; eighteens; sixties
like shadows outstretched on asphalt
of acquaintances vaguely remembered,
assuring him that this tree would never topple.
Eight years passing and she has aged.
A crass routine of sleeping extended on the sofa
mid-day insipidly creeps into her mannerisms,
those things unimaginable for a lively mother to have
in the eyes of a child.
With him having moved away,
and winters having become warmer, Oh!
How silly she makes herself seem,
failing to inhibit tears
for the bitter-sweetness of his “Absence” –
while that which grounds inside his chest
like a pervasive cold trapped in coloured thoughts
is the need to wish her a good night before bed
as a means of compensation for
the uncovered regret of ever having left;
removed her head from his lap, because,
if the now-brighter sun imparts anything,
it is the infirmity of that tree.
(comment on this poem)