Monday, November 2, 2009

Just Bodies, Only Light

Every morning I expect San Francisco rain,
but umbrellas aren’t what they used to be.
The sun comes instead, lights up the hills,
the houses – the pinks, the blues, the yellows.
And I begin to think everything
I’ve ever heard is a lie.
That truth like this sharp light peering
through my kitchen window,
will never last,
was never here at all.

Even love,
because it felt me in that bed,
with curtains pulled,
sheets awry,
it twisted that womanness into me,
with an arm outstretched waiting for
my head to rest.

But that was just you,
I see now a boy trying
to be a man,
with tattooed stories I will
never know,
just another body in a bed.

You zipped up,
made promises to me
with cold metal in between
your fingers, as I
wondered if I could keep love
in only a room.

And in that darkness,
but outside
the sun being Sunday and all,
I agreed,
convinced myself too
soon, that your body
was not just a body,
that this light
had been here
all along.

1 comment: