Everyone, hear me. My brain is a true gift,
but what good is the present without someone
to tear it open…
the way you move -- side to side,
front to back, across the room,
your shadow painting the walls
like black butter. The way you move --
drifting inside me, passing through me --
a shy, October wind that rises, escalating,
soon pushing howling shoppers
into the store. Mornings, I imagine
you whisper my name. The voice is soft,
but definite, repetitive and fragile,
a mild mantra, a delicate slice of ripe pear
resting on your tongue. I whisper back,
swallowing strawberry tea, spilling
and remembering that I am your map
and vice versa. When we love, we make humans
our momentary Gods. Unfair and ridiculous, the sale.
Endless. We are almost there…
C.A. MacConnell
