We were recovering from something, or trying to.
I had spoken to the medium healer
by telephone, while she sought contact
with my dead father. I waited
for something to shift
as the phone line
crackled.
*
You hadn’t left yet, were tinkering
in the kitchen, stayed late this morning
to soothe me
because I had cut
my finger. It was just a symptom
of what was happening with the boundaries
that held everything in.
The knife slipped
because it always does,
eventually.
You were unsteady too, exhausted
by the emergency of the everyday.
Relieved it wasn’t worse.
You wanted a reason to stay,
to care for me and sink
your face into the crease
of my neck.
We are bandaged in gauze;
bruised, together;
catching what spills.
The world is muted and far away
spinning its consequences
like clockwork.
The night before last, my nose bled again,
and I understood
our obvious casualties.
Substance drains
from broken vessels.
We cannot contain the hole.
*
I hung on to the phone
hoping for reason to dissolve.
I had prepared questions
that evaporated into the distance
without returning the echo
my ears strained for. Didn’t I know
what I wished to hear?
Hadn’t I dreamed
my own answers?
I wanted to open my chest
and absorb the cure
but my muscles
lay beached on the bed.
Or was it my mind
that couldn’t open?
The so called clearing did not clear
my head, swirling with vertigo.
I need a giant hand
to steady me, melt
the tension in my shoulders,
release the dam in my chest.
I yearn for the impossible
– barely possible? –
reunion of souls.
What I got was enough
to make me cry,
not enough
to convince.
He lives through the living,
but he will never come back.
Love is the lasting mark,
a glowing absence.
How could the medium empty
or fill this space?
*
I walk out, unlock myself
to the world. Am I lighter?
Can my knotted shoulder blades
spread like sails?
At the river, I stand and breathe,
still hoping.
A huge dog
turns to look at me.
I’m drawn to him, like any dog,
for ordinary reasons.
He keeps looking.
I approach cautiously, tread
the soggy, yellowed grass.
As he rolls onto his back
I muster the courage
to step
out of myself.
“Your dog is so sweet,”
I say to his human,
“can I say hi?”
She nods and I open
my hand on his solid Rottweiler skull.
I’m self-conscious
about the bloody Band-Aid
but soon my hands glide
across his glossy fur,
soaking up animal comfort.
I think I hear her say
he is an old soul.
The dog’s steady eyes send a flicker
to my muffled heart:
attention incarnate
among the dried-up river weeds.
Viki Peitchev 