somersaulting in the dark mouth moist
of the underwater fetus:
silent and suspended,
alone and awaited,
breath
less and
un
touched.
Yet
out from the empty
his mind twists and climbs to me like the sparkleberry umbilical.
And his hands cleave the earth
--anchoring--
finding crystals to pin to our ears like the sun.
And I'm tumbling clung to the stomach of distance:
always parallel to the where I'm supposed to be...
yet when he laughs and sings through the static, connecting,
I find I belong in his wandering Heavens.
And though I am bound I am free.
And if I could lean in close enough to be there,
he'd let me lick the leaves from his lips while he read
out loud poetry in the first degree.
And I know my photos will turn out great from here,
tracing the orbit of a horizon,
head-over-heeling along gravity's skin.
And I am equidistant from where the rest of it is,
and he is my star and I am his:
circling each other as in telescopic visions.
And we anticipate wet-eyed sudden comet reunions
in blazing re-entries -- the dust-fire in atmospheres,
but a satellite's strength means that it's separate
and its beauty is cosmic,
revolving.
And upwards is lonely and yet it is hopeful
our course not celestial,
but binary bound.
Copyright 1995 by Terra Elan McVoy -- from the table beneath the hand
