Eden

The earth leans
and so do we,
resurrected memory
reciting its freefall
even while bedding
a word called new
in the tracks of neurons
laid for unborn years

and the crash is soft
--it’s almost mist--
a breathless exchange
of sound for silence
color for line
beginning for end
dream and dreamer
in a land undivided
like when lips
remind skin
of that fuse
in our bellies
jolting the
pale winter moth
into a
sinking,
spreading
butterfly

and I, too,
want to invite the
bee with its smart
little sting into
a wave of
these petals
where a
galaxy of honey
may be forgotten
til June
because a
big bang
breaks sweetest
from the
nectar
of your name
on the stickiness of
my tongue

And this is Eden
in a book by Matisse,
And this is spring
as painted by you
through me



[I wrote this poem for Cat's fun audio challenge
(final results to appear on Friday!). The
Matisse painting is titled, "The Joy of Life."]

And All That Lies Between

"Do you hate me now?"

"No."

"Not even a little bit?"

"Not even."

"I don't believe you."

"Too bad."



"So you love me without reservation then?"

"Generally speaking, and without reservation."

"Okay . . . I believe you."

"Uh huh."



"And so you definitely, definitely don't hate me?"

"Jesus!"



"I mean, I'm so relieved."

"Hmph."



"Cause you know I was sort of ri--"

"YesIhateyou!"




"Generally speaking?"

"Generally and specifically and all that lies between."




"So this little detail . . . you hate . . . this?"




"It's not entirely loathsome."


"Not entirely. I see. And this point of order . . . right over here?"



"It doesn't make me actually want to puke."


"No puking! Very encouraging. And this . . . this minor feature . . . down over here? How do you feel about this?"


"Well, I . . . well. I think I'd have to get a better understand--oh, to hell with you already!"






"Jude."

"Mm."

"Jude!"

"What?"

"You do love me."

"Didn't I say so, darling?"

"Words mean nothing. It's this."

"This?"



"The space between."



[Reclining Nude, by Matisse]