if he missed me before he knew me,
and he says, "It's not possible,"
so I say, "You know, in a poetic kind of way."
"Still not possible," he maintains.
"Like, the love was always there, but waiting."
"Waiting?" he asks.
"In a prequel kind of way," I say.
"You mean like
Star Wars Phantom Menace?"
I think of invasions and trade routes,
barren landscape of impossible dunes
and treaties, what it took to get here,
galactic unrest, yes, but deeper,
like a scorched tongue
in the driest desert mouth
of pre-history abstracted beyond speech,
and you were my mirage
I want to tell him, over every next hill,
past the idiot men
who marched like droid armies
then dissolved into grains of sand,
ten thousand faceless others
in the epic space opera
that would precede us.
But you were hardened starlight,
desert bloom, something sustainable
and airlifted to safety
or buried like the roots of a knotted tree—
marker, memento,
trail I left for my future self
to find you.
[Teresa Leo, 'Force', from Bloom in Reverse]
No comments:
Post a Comment