AFTER THE STROKE You were right. The garage-sale couch I bought when we were in grad school faded against our apartment wall like sky into sky. I never minded your razzing. Your pokes led to embraces on that bland divan. Its springs broke years ago. Like the now-disconnected side of my body. My words dissolve before they touch my tongue. But our past replays scenes as you rotate old photos to feed my memory, although I forget the ice water you set inches from my good side. Lifting it proves my earth-presence. At the soirée displayed in the center of a yellowed album your eagle-proud mother told me, "Forget champagne. A common large-beaked crow hides inside your black bargain dress. Perch on a lower shelf, dear." As she lay dying, I wiped her chin and behind. She never changed her mind about me. I lift a freshened glass of water. My arms could be made of paper straws. Books cover one wall. We’ve read them all I long for the ability to tell you to open any book to the blank page in the back, the space that announces words have ended. Close the cover. Say good-bye. Water dribbles down my numb chin. I’m as hidden as our old blue sofa. Lock your eyes into mine. Let me see you as you were on that worn linen eyesore. Enter a space that joins everything it touches. Come. Sit with me. Embrace your common crow. One more time. The chores will wait. This moment may not.
The above poem is fiction. I am old enough to be aware of difficult possibilities. I am seeing a lot of them. For now, I celebrate this moment, and celebrate the quote I chose for today:
illustration made from public domain photo, pastel, colored pencil, and colored papers
terrypetersen 