At seventy, I ache for you at 3:02 Friday January 14.
I will survive. Thrive even. Without you. For a few more days. But my body my being aches for you. The surface of my skin haunts your hands. Your tongue, your teeth. Tender blessings and the muscles under your fingers the arch of my back how I wish I could feel your lips whisper into my hollows. My nipples and breasts caressed tell you stories of exotic suspense, homely cliches, unexplained mysteries.
Your soft skin under my hand melts away. I find internal organs upturned bleeding into the sheets.
That’s not all.
My heart beating fast and faster curries favour with your tongue.
Imagine the inside of your body turned towards another’s skin. The temperature rises. Death not a problem in this fiord of leg, the intimate creek of your thigh.
What’s a kidney to a lover but a kiss. Or a liver to a lover? A caress?
Just this moment I am alive with anticipation. Our distinct selves voice our longing, all covered, encompassed by each other, crossing over a thin membrane, twinned in a chrysalis transforming.
Counting out time, minutes shout soon or when or why….
Why? This distance. This time.
Of touch. Of your intimate presence.
So much suffering greater than mine. So much suffering….
Nothing is lonelier than finding another and giving them up for a time.
The lonely woman who lived earlier for so many years so happily on her own. Why want what is denied? this practical minded Anglo-Celt observed.
Or happy enough to be oblivious to the wanton: What full life could be more complete?
This dreaming body falls down Scona Hill, past the settlers’ cabin and Nellie McLung Park, through the arch of blue white lights. An engineered arc, the thoracic spine of the city, shimmers and tilts towards an aspen grove. Towering metal lights circle a reclaimed burial ground of bones lost then found beneath morning traffic’s thrum.
Now all is quiet. In this some place not far away, a frozen river thickens hard. Then thins in the swirl of dancing ice plates. Mercury rising.
I tap my fingers on the keyboard and the dog shifts and moans at my side. Imagined steps on the front porch below play low notes. At 3:19 in the morning, this contrapuntal music sounds as though it might lead to some arrival. A mental game of come and go come and go.
(I could chew my way towards your spine,
each vertebrae, a knot in my throat.)
There there, she says, calming herself.