there is no sign that he was here
no faded band of white where the ring encircled
no token
no token
no locket or braid of silver
( unless you count that initial carved on my upper left arm when i was 17 .....)
( but it is an indistinguishable secret )
( well, and now .... that other thing ... )
( well, and now .... that other thing ... )
no welts or bruises of indigo blue & purple-black
though, there is this bruised heaviness sometimes
though, there is this bruised heaviness sometimes
there is no box of memorabilia stashed under the bed, in the closet
or at the cedar-bottom of a drawer
no outward trace
exactly ....
but
as you peel back the folds
of peach, pink & bone around my heart ...
you will find a blossoming infinite hole that remains
marking - defining
the sureness ...
steeped in music, words, yearning & years
smelling of honeyed-moist-earth & green growing things
you can still feel the imprint of his finger-tip tracings
that followed the path of my blood & moonlight
i've grown accustomed to that shadow weight and you can stand in it's thundered fire
and you will know.
holes
are
loves token
