The moments in between

I do not want to talk about the moments in between

that stretch dark velvet

as a breathe held hug

I dress myself in black cotton tee and jeans

pocket my cards and keys

embraced by cloth, the familiar

for the tired lead lined morning.

Sometimes, being is formidable

though tears mend laugh lines,

laughter mends life lines

and so does honest earned sweat.

Salt ether, trickles between breasts

and into the sacrament of backbone

as I carry my bags home

one foot in front of the other

that is all that is required

I fall between the spaces

Quite frequently

as moments flash in

windscreen under streetlamp faces

orbits and angles

and the image of deep sky

split by sharp splintered stars

It all slides by sinuous as a cat

I do not want to talk about the moments in between

Re- m -embers

Grey matter they call it

like in ash and concrete and the underside of the mop

with the sediment of grime and crumbs

and house dirt, grit and glass long broken into teeth

without fairies to take them

Tell me about ash and about words falling from lips

like bread crumbs sprayed from laughter

I imagine, music spills from a live soul the way ash falls from a body on fire

Ashes are what I remember more then anything much of the time,

especially when it rains

I had to know

what they were doing with Nana's

smile and heart and arms

the ones I loved

So I walked into the back gate of the crematoria

a curious, curly blue-eye child

Right there, implements rest against the brick wall

the pitchforks of Ogres

and a scarred singed mattress

like a leftover wedge of pumpkin bitter and burnt at the edges

a glimpse of a door much like an oven

and a smell I could not breathe to

Still, memory holds no air, just grease smoke

and embers

after, Nana's little bag of human-being ash

in its little sandwich bag

in the little granite cubbyhole

and the perfect lawn of the memorial garden.

They call it love

when it is a sense of heart and warmth of feeling home and safe,

but it isn't? Is it?

Love is more a heartbeat hot in veins, a cry in the night, the wings

of sparrows huddled together feathers fluffed against the winds weep

Autumn smells like ancient books with binding that crackles,

parchment leaves litters sidewalks, a manuscript discarded

and I wish I could read the veins that thread each one, like words

I may know something then

Why does it feel like we are caught in a storm so much of the time,

and made of trees unbending, not like palms that can withstand hurricanes,

but deep oaks, rooted and sentient, uprooted and lost,

the morning after, leaves littering the floor like cigarette butts, soil and ash

They call it love, and say it is a wellspring of sweet water

but it isn't? Is it?

It is the wings of a raven caught between the rib cage

fluttering fist pounding against itself

It is the gentle wind of soft, sweet lips pressed to the forehead of an infant to feel for fever

Love is rare, but can feel so naked, that eye to eye is fingertip in flame

immortal immolation

and we are not just broken shards, but shattered into powder and paste

and sculpted imperfectly perfectly

a clay that never hardens

by the fingers and hands of chance meetings of strangers and words from lips

and mouths, brain and bone, spirit and senses

a whisper of ash on their breath

I wish I could read their veins like words

I may know something then