Bones along her body show
Art is never far below,
reasons offers equal space
bones that glimmer in her face;
art is never far from where
reason offers up its chair –
art is never far way.
Phones ring out in open air,
ears deduce a message there,
noises fall into place,
tones that need no special grace;
letting half her reason go,
art is never far from so,
never far when she will play
dancing bones on reason’s day.
~~~~~~~~ Bones Along Her Body by George Bowering {canada’s poet laureate}
It’s been a time of poetry lately. I’ve been pulling it from my tongue like a magician with coloured scarf notes. Alastair wants me to write some of it down, so I will. Some of it, what I can remember past our taxi ride this morning when silences were filled by the driver’s Rod Stewart radio. Oh rhythm of my heart is beating like a drum with the words “I love you” rolling off my tongue tends to block anything made of water. Liquid words dry when you realize that however truth ridden you might be, you know the words to this horrid song. Somewhere in the background of your mind you can taste the lyrics threading along with the pastel drum machine music and it’s terrible. I was blessed with company that laughed when I suddenly looked pained. Understanding immediate without a word. Underneath it all Wolf Parade has been steadily playing. you know it’s the easiest way a godsend rescue.
So I go.
I bought a keychain and dark chocolates on my way out from the airport. I find something soothing in taking a physical object with me when I go. Something denoting that I was there and left behind. Equilibrium balanced in the simplest forms. A vividly coloured beetle encased under glass in functional clear plastic. Gold and purple, royalty tinted with chitinous legs. It’s a beautiful creature, perhaps from the same country the cocoa is from that makes my chocolate so perfect. Heaven melted over spun sugar. It’s addictive, this heady love thing. I had to firmly push him, “Go now”. I leaned against a booth and watched him as he didn’t look back, not knowing my eyes were following his scribble of a body through the harsh white hallway. I walked away satisfied, I’d accomplished my day’s need. He didn’t leave alone, nor did he want to go. I am well. I made the call and sent him off. Let tears wait until later when the chemicals hit past my distractions. I don’t have any now.
I have a new song to sing
On the bus back I suddenly realized I wished Larry was here. I’ve never met him, but I was flooded with the feeling that he’d let me rest my head on his shoulder and talk. Babble on about my boys while we sat in the back, rocking a little as the bus crested the bridge into the city. Gavin losing the studio and Alastair’s leaving, how I miss them, how they make me feel maybe that I could make something one day. Listen to him tell me about his sweet La Sherazade. I only noticed as it struck me as odd that I haven’t anyone to talk to in the city I live in. Instead I have this and here. Welcome home, me, I’m writing. Hope you don’t mind.