Loose branches rustle in the strange air of
Night. Standing in the middle of the abandoned park,
on the thin metal slide, the World coos in anticipation,
it is Time. I shift my gaze to the sky.
There are two beams of light, two bodies over my head
yet I only know of one, I only know of One
Moon, and She pulls me deep into
Desperation, dank and dark behind her shadow
in the push and pull of the tides of Memory.
She hides her face and her calloused Hands
in changing phases, but her delicate wrists
always unveil in ritualistic
Slowness, like a secret being whispered
into small holes by the side of trees
so Here is my blessing, the cleansing.
this baptism by borrowed
Fire, by the warmth of her palm
pressing her prayers into mine, as if
gliding on my wavelength the Moment freezes
and the air is pregnant with Silence.
She holds her breath. it Cocoons straight
in my veins, holding her close. Her
light is not hers, but it is nothing if
not a message. Here, in our borrowed World.
Basking in the glow of stolen Light, I
greet her with faint, trembling fingers. Fate
pointing to my chest, right on the spot
where her light is the brightest, in this
World, where her wrists are bound, a waxing song
crystallizes in my ears. This is not home,
but you are Welcome. You are safe. Safe as
my Wanting can be. Find me in this world.
Inspired by Haruki Murakami’s 1Q84. I really miss Japan. This is for another day.