Sailing alone
towards the far side
of the kitchen,
I hear the siren singing
way off in the living room.
She lays on the rug,
reading, but her songs
swirl above the Ikea lounger
and the open glowing
laptop. The ceiling lamp twists
with fear and desire.
I don't clot my ears with wax
or lash myself to the stove.
I stir the soup she brought over.
In certain phases of her moons,
her singing begins.
First, as random bursts
of voices, but then form
is found as sing-song
rambling--a language of
child sweetness and child
violence, of play advancing
onto war. How is it possible
for me to not swim towards her,
to not try to sing along,
to not want
to fit my body against
hers? She does me
so much kindness
and cruelty,
taking and giving more
than she should,
all the while building
bridges to cross into hells.
Heaven is when
the voice subsides
and songs no longer
scratch at my soul, when
her lyrics cease their
search for a language
and the moons
lose their torque on my seas.
by jerry gordon
11.2012
