Space, Measured

What is the measure of space between two people?
It can be recorded in kilometers or inches.
Yet what does this distance, air or water, matter?
Nothing could matter one bit less to me.

What was the measure of separation days ago?
Hundreds of miles over roads and borders.
Worse, no clarity on your whereabouts,
Your new destination, your situation.

Whispers and rumors spread about you,
Departing suddenly, suddenly alone,
Running in hurt, or was it freedom?
But off nonetheless, gone for good.

I was shocked when I saw you,
Not states away, but three feet,
On a chair by that same door,
Close enough to reach, to touch.

So there, just arm's length away,
You were, yet that space was
Still too far for my hand, to
Reach across to touch you.

This gap between you and me
Was not too great for smiles,
For sending silent messages
That I struggled to interpret.

Then you began, tentatively,
To close this gap, without words,
But saying 10,000 things,
And one, single, clear thing.

After acres of time and years and
Rolling across familiar landscapes
Over and over and over again,
I have come to be able to measure
The gap between a man and a woman
Without use of machinery or tape,
Just by feeling and sensing space,
What can never be crossed or bridged,
And what is only a breath and a touch away.

Was She Condemned That Day?

Fingers brushed whites, coral pinks
Passionate gifts of lime, hibiscus,
Driving their favors into the air,
Leaving traces on dappled skin.

Lit from above, she walked
Through bursting corridors,
Of shadows, and echoing
Laughter. Or was it mockery?

There, in a clearing, she saw
A trio, conspirators, full of wine,
Throwing heads back, roaring,
Over some prurient tale.

She didn't get the joke, until
One of them waved his hand,
And then pain stabbed abdomen.
She was the punchline, she saw.

That subtle gesture, familiar,
Revealed the angle of his mind.
Was she condemned that day?
Was she wounded by knowing?

Truth, unearthed, tagged him
As a false sort of friend,
One who, once out of sight,
Derides, destroys, delights.

Yet instead, she realized then,
Of catastrophic, knowing
Set her free, released her
From passion's rough grasp.

No longer clinging to
Dreams of nights together,
She could walk on now,
Strong, secure, serene.

And then he spotted her.
He ceased laughing, face
Falling, ashen. As she looked
At this cold image, she knew.

She knew from his eyes, then
That he did not despise her,
But, like brats pulling hair,
Had quite opposite feelings.

As the sun dipped lower,
Warming and shadowing,
They knew without risk,
Love cannot root nor flower.

In the Narrow

Slim glass drips
With condensation;
Potent antidote for
The hot and steamy
Afternoon alone,
Ice-cold gin and tonic
Drained now, with
Pools of tepid water
Left as the sole
Detectable trace
Of its brief existence.

Overhead the fans
Groan in rotation,
Yearning song of
These wasted hours.
Bartender makes
Circular swipes,
Erasing the traces
Of potions drained,
Glimmering reflections
Light stubbled chins
Of silent, still faces.

On such afternoons
Steam rises and builds,
And an overflow
Of tension and energy,
Must find release
In a sudden storm.
Winds penetrate
The narrow hall,
And heavy slashes
Seep over the sills.
A sweet release.

Pressure eases,
Faces lift and
Shift their gazes
To the world,
And to each other.
Air lightens, and
Lungs draw breath.
In the narrow,
Space once again,
Room to encounter
What lies between.

Concrete

Countless times I have let myself fall into dreamlike states
Only to shake and stumble back to a place concrete
Seeing that everything is at it was, has always been.
And there, looking around me and within me, I know
That change is not impossible, not unlikely, but
Nonetheless very difficult to attain.
In these moments, I realize that while concrete is far
From malleable in its hardened form,
It is not indestructible.

So these barriers made of tough mixtures of
Sand, of granite, of limestone, of water,
I may chip away at them, with chisels and
Hammers and picks and even fingernails,
And reveal once again, the bright horizon,
The vista of evergreen bristles, the rivers
Rushing, the fields of candy-pink peonies
And morning flowers of every kind,
The sweet and beckoning wind.

Concrete has always been there, walling
In my dreamlike states, keeping them
At a great distance from me, but I still
Stretch out my arms to beat it into dust,
I continue to search for tools to pulverize
Its confining, insidious resistance.
What drives me to continue this fight?
Concrete walls are not high enough
To keep me from seeing the light.

Descending

Delicate spoon perched on pearlescent plate
Albumen oozing over the hand-rounded
Mound of pink, glistening, raw meat
Pinches of parsley, fresh to the
Nose as it falls from fingers
Onto the dish of flesh
Eaten with savor
And very late.

Cork struggling to be freed from bottle
Then giving way with subtle breath
Filling stemmed glasses warmed
By urgent palms pressing
Against cool glass,
Rims raised up to
Gently open
Mouths.

Crust of stingingly hot bread cracking
As hands snap a fresh loaf into two
Then dip a steaming half in oil
Green, fruity and young,
And offer it as a taste,
Each to the other,
On a late night
Descending.

Yes, I Am

Yes, I am sitting alone
On the high, spindly legs
Of this rickety seat
Elbows delicately perched
Between pools of spill
Pretending I'm absorbed
In the dizzying back-and-forth
Of a tennis match.

Yes, I am not speaking
To anyone here, at this bar,
Just focused on the screen
As incessant chatting swirls,
Sipping from a plastic flute of
Grapefruit and champagne,
A cocktail with a name
Nobody remembers.

Yes, I am intensely aware
Of your presence steps away,
Because the timbre of your voice
Slips through the racket
And creeps into my ears,
Where it rattles the canals,
Drums an insistent beat
On each inner surface of me.

Yes, I am longing to turn
Away from the tedious volleys,
Pulling myself through the air,
A mere meter of space between
Us, and slip my hand beneath
The surface of your laundered shirt
And press against the skin there,
There that covers your heart.

Recollections on a Beach

She stood there in the
Full, blinding stare
Of the midday sun,
Shading her eyes
As light reflected off
The lightly chopping waves.

She breathed in the heavy air,
Salty as pistachios,
Letting the thickness of it
Fill her laboring lungs,
Calming her body and
Awakening her mind.

She bored her bare toes
Into the grit below,
Through the hot surface
To a strange chill beneath,
Arousing memories of a
Lost afternoon years before.

She tasted the tangy spray
That flew with the breeze,
Coating her lips, and
Sparking thirst, longing
For a glass of cold beer,
Frothing like cresting waves.

She walked across burnt sands
To a whitewashed shack,
Barely erect after years
Of battering winds, where
An old woman stood, her
Hair guarded by a net.

She gestured silently, and
Offered a bill for a bottle,
Cold and dripping as it
Emerged from the ice,
And opened it right there,
Drinking deeply, quickly.

She gulped the icy, effervescent
Liquid, bracing, stirring
Her body and mind,
As it had on that lost afternoon,
When she had wandered here
With someone unnamed, unknown.

She had met him standing
Hip deep in the salty, thick water,
Bodies bouncing with swells,
Their faces turned to the sun.
They had danced with the waves,
Not speaking, not asking.

She had grabbed his hand
To steady herself in the rush
Of a strong Caribbean wave,
Then followed him down
Beneath the surface, where
They kissed for a moment.

She had not let go of him,
As he led her out of the sea,
Onto the wet sands, across
To a shack shaded by palms,
And there, they shared a beer,
Bubbling against salty tongues.

She had walked on with him
To an even more secluded place,
Amid heavy, dark green leaves,
By a high cascade of water,
To share with that unnamed man
A lost afternoon. 

Promise of the Morning

She remembered the buoyant promise of the morning,
With sprays of sea water hitting the air like pearls,
And endless stretches of smooth sand
Untroubled by the digging feet and
Dredging hands, when sunlight softly
Pressed against the horizon
Like an inquisitive, gentle kiss.

She remembered the wild circus of the afternoon,
With laughter rollicking and voices rising
In some sort of tribal song, lit afire by
Sparkling cups of beer and the sweet smoke
Of roasting meats, when swimmers peeled
Strips of glistening seagrass off wet skin,
And eyed each other, hungry.

She remembered the urgent frenzy of the night,
When the fire blazed against the veil
Of a purple sky punctured by stars,
Setting pops and sparks into chilled breezes,
Lighting the encircled faces with a red glow,
As they joined each other, in a primal dance,
Then quietly slid away into the darkness.

She remembered the cool circumspection of the dawn,
When the fire had burned into flaky, white crisps,
And the morning breezes carried away traces
Of the raucous gathering, and sleeping
Faces were still as stones, but marked
With signs of the splendor, and all
Would part suddenly in the morning.