My right side has the winter blues.
While the left side flits and flirts, meandering away endlessly,
my right hip is not so sure…
Faintly, underneath a landscape of snow, rumbles a current.
It cannot hide its palpable power,
this crystallized memory of my fascia.
I sense you, father memory pushed down,
you have been safe there for years, maybe eons.
I know you have the potential to lift mountains!
But first patience is needed: more puffed o’s down limbs,
into feet propped on chair.
Listening, waiting, following,
a hairline crack from hip to feet,
spells out first hesitant lines,
unclear without substance.
Then…suddenly…I stand on a chair as if on new ground.
Another chapter opens like lips, expectant.
The looong thigh slide becomes sweet, murmuring meditation –
until the need to stretch in opposite directions takes over,
fibers fierce and taut,
as if on a rack —
the great tension felt in love,
before two can become one.
Our winter breath is a bear at the height of hibernation.
“What else is stirring?” Nothing stirs.
We are in our caves, dreaming,
allowing two sides to follow the scent of spring.
The spell breaks with a laugh and we’re back,
in a world where we can drive our cars home,
where children await to tug us into their worlds,
where trash needs to be taken out and the dishwasher emptied,
where our pains return like vultures and computers lure the mind and stifle the body.
The cave forgotten, lost amid split hair, ends.