There is the circling of eagles in the deep blue sky and the sound of the flute, as if emanating from the tendrils of the new monsoon borne porcupine-ed leaves and there is then, the drilling noise that must overpower the hum of the traffic or the worker woman’s bangles, clinking with the fidget of the soul moving inside her palms
In all these spaces I tell you to find yourself the emptiness that is pleasant in the patience of a house plant that stares out the window everyday and feels the rain in dripping shadows– I offer you cold loneliness
for the times I cannot offer you the warmth when my fingers touch the sides of your hand, the spaces between your fingers the moving of your neck– the bed of your amorous speaking, from where you will inform me of my once-again distant absence
Then, I give you my absence for you to hold and believe my presence in your palms once again.
How many times have I criticized the metaphor of the bird, when my mother would say how free is she and I’ll put my hand upon my cold forehead, It doesn’t ring right, I tell her, it is a projection into wishful thinking.
It is unruly for you, I tell her, to fly without airports, immigration officers, the office cicadas, the old regular bloated system to color within the lines, the patterned sweat it brings upon your back, the despair of the black and white, dust-colored earth that holds your feet.
I think of the rain– often I wish to sink in earth, in a paradox of feeding back the fertility with a gift of sleep, and perhaps the satisfaction of a life-long debt repaid is the final flying.