We, who have fallen hard on concrete truths
so easily swept away -
miles and wires and the clicks of keyboard
lives, loves and losses painted on body canvas
from Papua New Gunea to Newark New Jersey...
When we speak in verse we are one voice
one yet two hearts knowing
places not so much secret, but avoided
by those content to leave no trace.
We strip off our mundane days
Naked, we bend lovingly, knowingly
beneath honesty's bright blade,
asking for painful truth
Our histories are aboriginal marks
slash lines and tribal glyphs left on skin
never to be seen, but by others of the marked,
willing to go deeper.
Some day they will read from our weathered hides
stories of aching openness and infinite compassion
we could not tell in glyphs of mere language.
They will speak of distance with a lingering smile,
of loneliness the way we refer to plague,
- some long forgotten malady... referred to only in ancient texts.
We will be long gone then, to history, to legend.
Teachers for those whose will stretches
to caress our kindred spirits
to read the testament of our mirrored hearts
And we will be remembered...
when seasons change
and the tides are still.
© J BARRETT WOLF