This is the test

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