Your slumbering breath against my forehead ushers in new thought, new vigor, love rejuvenated, held two steps for fear of slipping before giving all to All and plunging, a fall as Luciferian and assured as the tranquilizing calm of a turtle you can't catch for the pond it loves, loving it back in soft thrumming ripples barely perceptible except to a few, to my Love, with her poor eyesight, always seeing the most beautiful and gentle thing, no matter where it goes and how; always that, entirely her own domain untouched by the vicissitudes, a harsh word or hand by the world as we'll all get, a backhand perhaps when we least anticipate one, thinking we'd done well, thinking I've been good or well or some label we give ourselves after feeding to feed again. We'll know our sign, mark it, and she'll be there approvingly pointing out wind chimes, turtles, spots to clean, and all things purifying. We'll know our name in the ruminating stories of others. We'll know us when we know that little swimming turtle (all kids do; we lose it, I'm tempted to say "over time", but not that. Never that: time holds no sway to a soul).
"I want to tell you about the girl and why she looks so fine....I need to tell her she's the only one I really love"
Now Brandi put it to me far more eloquently through Neruda, who made me weep, whose power came entirely from her; for never could those words have meaning had I not known the universal through her. He touched me before; he levelled me when she quoted him.
And here's my response to Neruda, grand Latin I've surpassed a thousand times in as many emails forgotten: the nibble in her nimble mouth gnaws through me, draws my hunger while satiating it, never abating. Her button nose, the pert reminder of better times, when idyll and the ideal were wed, has no way around that impish mouth, that minutiae of pout leaving droves in mad houses and driving more to do more. Why, when speaking, Pablo, did you forget the curvature that pearls coin and oyster with equal disposition, with a fast and grinding ferocity like your whores never met in clime or in time? How did you not know but do, dearest Paulo, that when the sweltering palaver of passerby matches in meaning the heat outside; that when we stumble and gawk for a pretty sight no sooner had than left, we'd no sooner had than left her, all palsied and debunked of illusion, hearing her voice for just one second and knowing in it the everlasting truth we'd spend the rest of our lives trying to justify?
If, gentle Neruda, you need to know the meaning of love, knowing I could never articulate it to you with a surer hand as yours has had, I would say this and only in the last gasping death of hushed tones where all we mean to say is said:
"Oh, my baby"
Leagues rise, they fall; none of it matters prior to smelling the scent of you, that hot heat between those legs, assured by eyes if you saw them twinkle just for you, knowing it was for that alone that they did, not for material or spiritual gain, but as selfless reflex, a hurt hunting love nothing touched or could, you'd fall and proclaim a faith you thought gone, never was, reestablishing itself in the warmth of her arms you know as home the moment they encircle you, the moment you stare at a bland white wall and wonder why while it comes home to you in the softness of her lilt, begging you to beg for a little bit, until begging remains a bad memory. You would know that she had never left; that she'd been there from when as surprised as sleeping serpents perturbed she came to know. As subtle a touch as a wink can impart in the softest glow of mellow light at the beginning of the longest day you've ever had, she came to know.
Tell me, Neruda, again, of this woman that I know I am bent on destroying as she creates me. Tell me how much we love our women when that is our furtive aim. Tell me that her back will ever bend to a will as feeble as ours. Tell me that we are not delusional beings. Ten to one, chum, we're fucked.
And thus all is well. Calm settles. Dragonflies find shoulders. For now, Pablo, dear wee child sitting hurt in the barn, we are well.
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