From the gate I
notice flying seagulls,
cascading jasmine
leaning on cold stones
of names, dates,
and inscriptions.
My eye catches a
silhouette in blue,
she returns the
look from her twenty years
of distance; still
so beautiful!
Nearby, parallel
lines of turquoise give solidity to water,
melancholy and
bougainvillea trickles from wrought iron balconies,
I walk the path to
meet her.
I cannot forgive
how her cruel departure broke my step,
collapsed my place
in the world,
still, tenderness
floods through me remembering
our strolls by the
sea, passing sails in front of our window,
sharp cypresses
puncturing the lucent sky,
nightingales’
conversations in the Botanical Gardens.
As the sting of
memory stabs my side
I drag my feet all
the way to the stone carved with her name,
The Door
My life moves towards the unpainted
door, cracked by sun, mud splattered
all over its frame, which contrasts
with its still unused polished handle.
I yearn to know what’s on the other side,
not to cross it, and much less explore it.
Too early, I tell myself, though bones hurt,
sleep never comes at night when I listen
the pump inside my chest growing erratic,
can’t find words lost in the maze of time nor
the radiant faces of loved ones now dimed by
dust from shoulders of ghost in the penumbra.
Mental wild storms erase what was mine,
if that’s a thing. The door beckons
insists to be studied, to open a crack,
leave it ajar, acquaint with its shadows.
I look around, there’s neither river,
boat, or boatman on site. The valor
of the hero’s quest, and rage at human
indifferent cruelty keeps me engaged.
I have not had my fill, thoughts of returning
brings hope and fright, so I peek through
the peephole, sit by the slightly ajar door
considering my options.
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