It wasn't anything

It wasn’t anything
that could be spoken
or pointed to.

It hung in the air.

a vague impression of a scent
with no
source,

a feeling
with no
name.

What can be defined by the space

it doesn’t fill? One cannot assert the existence of such a thing.

but
there it was.

Perhaps it could be drawn
on black paper
in silver ink,
and the act
of drawing it
(the shape, whatever it please
the illustrator)
would be the thing itself.

Let the drawing be the interpretation made
by the grasping senses.

I’ll trace the line with a fingertip,
try
to feel the tautness,
to locate the endpoints,
to collect a few silver dustings to print
on my forehead.

I would be a devotee
of the office supply closet,
transported by the scent
of rubber cement,
saying and counting my prayers
by a paper clip chain,
solemnly exchanging
incoming for outgoing mail.
Find comfort in numerable,
tangible odds and ends,
useful and always ready,
so very organized,
unlike these elastic impressions
of you
that
stretch
out
to encompass
so many interpretations,
and then
snap
back
to admonish my folly.


written 6.2.97
revised 2.28.07

© 2007 ElenaMarie

If love were a bargain

And you weren’t supposed
to be thinking these things—
nothing charitable in this direction,
nothing to encourage a strengthening
of this strand loosely woven
between two minds
(of hearts we won’t speak).
Calling up
little-promising proofs
was supposed to require a pot
of coffee and a dozen donuts
(twelve more free with coupon—
oh if love were such a bargain—
with six you get eggroll,
but one doesn’t mean
two necessarily.
There are motions to make,
bargains to plea, evidences to show...);
and there should have been more
days of snow, more mornings
punctuated by the hiss and clank
of the radiator that left rust stains
on dirty, grey carpeting.
The landscape should
have remained
that steely-blue grey, the color of eyes
too long used to the cold.
Perhaps we could have redecorated,
added a splash of Dante red
and delineated the boundaries
of the inner sanctum, to match
the tomato sauce spilled from pizza.
But green had to begin,
and the sun could stay away no longer.
They would collaborate,
those happy fellas,
to send small hopes,
kept in enameled boxes,
up and out and up into the sky.


written 4.25.97
revised 2.28.07

© 2007 ElenaMarie