How it is
Posted: 27 June 2008
Word Count: 170
How it is
Yes, thatís exactly how it is, he says.
Itís like electricity, power.
I sip my wine, content that the point
is not to explain it but to acknowledge
the need to explain it, to tickle the water,
to feel it pause momentarily within my reach
before it glistens away.
I study the sea-smoothed stone, the cuttlefish shell,
the bleached bones unloaded onto the table linen.
I asked what it was, this feeling,
the persistent yearning.
He says itís hope but I disagree. But then I realise
weíre arguing the meaning of words. One meaning
slides into another, given time.
And this beating of the heart, whatís worse,
if it stops or if it doesnít stop?
If it never stops it will be like being trapped
in a lift with my mind clawing at the doors.
The sun slips behind the awning.
The back door to the temporal lobes
closes with a silent click. We step back from the brink,
homesick for the place we were before birth.
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