memoryhouse

I’m copying down my memories.
Old visions are not all good ones.
The spring sunlight that warms my fingers
also falls across today’s empty bed.

Between the window’s outside and inside
a fragment of the world is suspended.
As I reach to touch it
the beautiful thing gallops away.

I keep gazing at everything.
My heart reluctantly whispers
but love hushes it.

Today returns;
yesterday is a blur;
I can’t imagine the shape of tomorrow.

At first
I feared I couldn’t let you touch me without ruining me,
so I didn’t let you touch me at all.

It’s when you’re on the brink of something
that you lose your balance.
When my body can’t bring itself to say what it needs to,
my heart plays Russian Roulette with my throat.
I swear bullets tore through me all of those nights
they went right through me, the marks are still here.
They refuse to fade
like the one, from your teeth, on my hand.

Someday, I’ll show you the bullet I would have taken for you,
after time has done the wash.
I’ll take it out of the jar of missed opportunities.
We’ll hold it up to the light.
You’ll roll it around your mouth like a fallen tooth perhaps.
I won’t forgive you exactly,
but we’ll laugh about how small it is.
We’ll wonder how such a short thing
could ever have meant so much.

In the afternoon sunlight at St James’s Park
she is on the top rung of a pair of steps cleaning a big
dark heart. And it has everything in it, this heart. Twice.
Even the coffee pot I brought back in hand luggage
that time, when such a thing was exotic, exciting,
more or less unknown. The coffee pot that blew up, in the end,
leaving its mark on the ceiling. That one.
Here it is, unthought of, unremembered,
she never even saw it, treacly, right here
in his big dark heart, which needs cleaning now,
front and back. Twice. Along with all its other cracks,
writ large, packed tight, here, in sunlight. His histories.
Which are our histories, some of them at least,
hands moving in darkness, his back, the rope,
the hammers and saws of a life, coffee.
Caught forever here in a heartbeat and wiped clean now,
restored in afternoon sunlight, the darkness shining, made good.
At last.

Not anyone who says, ‘I’m going to be
careful and smart in matters of love’,
who says, ‘I’m going to choose slowly’,
but only those lovers who didn’t choose at all
but were, as it were, chosen
by something invisible
and powerful and uncontrollable
and beautiful and possibly even
unsuitable –
only those know what I’m talking about
in this talking about love.

There are moments that cry out to be fulfilled.
Like telling someone you love them.
Or giving your money away, all of it.

Your heart is beating, isn’t it?
You’re not in chains are you?

There is nothing more pathetic than caution
when headlong might save a life,
even, possibly, your own.

– Mary Oliver

I try to buy thoughtful presents.
When people express preferences
I remember them. Sometimes yes
I go over the top because I like to give.
People may find this extravagant
and alarming. I do not mean it.
If I had to correct your pronunciation
I would find a joking way to do it.
You would barely notice it.
Or I would incorporate the word
into a sentence of my own, correctly,
and leave it up to you.
I try to bring people in from the sidelines.
Animals tend to like me.
Once a blind dog nosed my thigh
and rested the length of its jaw in my palm.
I can tolerate long stretches alone.
I think there is strength in kindness.
If ever you are shivering, I will give you my coat.
I will push my coat around your juddering shoulders
and I will kiss your hands.
I will hold your hands in my hands.
I do not want to let them go.