The narrow passage
Between the stained oven door
And the aging ice box
Between the cluttered cupboard
With its sick-green porcelain
And the groaning garbage bin
With its dead beasts
From an old Sunday roast
Between the clumsy cuttlery drawer
And the brown bread bin, scattered with staleness
Still open
Half empty.
2018
I hesitated. Saw my doubts in the cracks of the hard ground, scorched by hot summer. In between the grass. In the places where it won’t grow again. I felt it when the wind picked up my page, bristled against my bare arms with a chilly reminder. I will brush up against you. I will take away your water slide and put you back on the mountain, somewhere near the bottom where the path is overgrown.
I’m in the sun and the gentle cooling breeze. The shade grows around me. But the sun always returns.
A space to fill with words.
Journeys embarked and recalled, senses
revealed, passions peeled,
and layers, leaf-blown, shed and shaken layers
put to their earthly cycles or left to dissipate
unanswered, elusive
unfinsihable.
luqmanarian 