This, Unspoken

22 Jun

Sometimes in the evening,
you at your stove, me at mine,
I imagine that we are living together.

I see us through the window,
me chopping, you stirring,
inches apart instead of miles.
I see us through the doorway,
you washing, me drying,
the cupboards stacked neatly,
the knives all in a row.

Would we be miles apart, I wonder —
me, only inches from your crook’d elbow,
your soapy hand.
And, if so, would we be
Comforted by the nearness made easy by distance?

Sometimes in the afternoon, —
the fan in the corner eyeing the room,
I wake in the circle of your uncomplicated arms
and ask myself if I ought never lie down
unless you are beside me.

I see us through the curtains,
me sleeping, you dreaming,
you sunk into sleep, me riding my uneasy dreams.
I see us in the moon’s light,
first my turning, then your shifting,
the moon hung in that spot where the big tree used to be.

Would we be dreaming to risk it, I wonder —
me, a mere hairsbreadth from speaking,
from wondering out loud.
And if we were, would they be
the dreams that come while we are sleeping,
or those that come while we are widest awake?

  

Robin Halevy

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4 Responses to “This, Unspoken”

  1. saadia k July 7, 2011 at 7:46 am #

    z —
    i’ve decided that, first: you really must create a bound anthology of poetry and other snippets you love, because i’ve never read any collection of writing i’ve loved even one tenth as much as i love what you find and share on this blog; and second: you’re wonderful. but hey, that’s not news.
    xx

    • z July 29, 2011 at 4:08 pm #

      saadia, you are too kind to me! thank you for this most lovely comment and sorry for taking so long to reply- i’ve been living on the road since June, am currently in the Canary Islands, but will be back to civilisation (i.e. a consistent internet connection) in around a week. looking forward to posting more then! xxx

  2. MsAfropolitan August 23, 2011 at 8:33 pm #

    I agree with Saadia, you find the good ones.. How beautiful this is, the image of the moon hanging is haunting something inside me now.

    I came accross this poem yesterday by by Janice Mirikitani

    A woman weaves
    her daughter’s wedding
    slippers that will carry
    her steps into a new life
    The mother weeps alone
    into her jeweled sewing box
    slips red thread
    around its spool,
    the same she used to stitch
    her daughter’s first silk jacket
    embroidered with turtles
    that would bring luck, long life.
    She remembers all the steps
    taken by her daughter’s
    unbound quick feet:
    dancing on the stones
    of the yard among yellow
    butterflies and white breasted sparrows.
    And she grew, legs strong
    body long, mind
    independent.
    Now she captures all eyes
    with her hair combed smooth
    and her hips gently
    swaying like bamboo.
    The woman
    spins her thread
    from the spool of her heart,
    knotted to her daughter’s
    departing
    wedding slippers.

    • z August 28, 2011 at 1:12 pm #

      Minna, thank you for this, it is beautiful. The weaving & threading of life…

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