A poem by Michael Graber
Only death, amnesia, or love melts
the last, frozen veils between us
and the beloved. The few saints
whose skin turns golden taste
such lips in two worlds. Here you
are, awake in the senseless river
of eternity and alive in your sweaty
skin. We broke time’s membrane.
Why did you kill me in wartime
after I bathed you with my best batch
of lavender soap when black death
ravished you only a few centuries
before? Who was married so young
before records were kept? Us?
I only recall laughter, the sun on
your white cloak, ivy in your hair,
Spring turning the mountains green.
You say I taught for centuries,
I know. I wanted to learn how
to handle this glance. This is the test.
The grading scale depends upon
subject and object merging when
called to dance. And the fiddle plays.
Poem by Michael Graber
Art by Bill Brouard from Visual Alchemy © Copyright 2012