We dream a meeting place beyond
a cloakroom where we hang ourselves then
walk formless into air
lungs cannot breathe
and inhale deeply.
Beyond memory we remember and
run legless in ancient forests through
leavened light. Armless we swim in
primal water, cleansed, and
lacking tongues, say nothing.
Nothing needs saying,
not now, when “other” is a foolishness
the absence of which explains why
we do not touch with tender fingers
that do not extend from
Instead, we feed each other cookies
that do not require mouths.
The good kind:
When enough time has not passed, the
ordinary world calls us back. Conjured
against our soft will, we fade in
with reluctant ears, helix
incus, cochlea arising as
the air begins to clamor and
trillions of cells coalesce: flesh and
bone and muscle, blood
and tissue, organs
cohering, the coarse elegance of
physical disposition reasserting itself.
The sheathing of our separate skins.
Within our budding brains
synapses potentiate, fire
and it commences:
interpreting, naming, judging.
Weighting the weightless, shaping
the soft curves of our innocent
lips into the word we had forgotten.
The gravity of gathering
form tugs us back through the
cloakroom, still hanging where
we left ourselves while time stopped,
still hanging for the instant it takes
my new brain to choose
my new hands to grasp
I am putting you on;
I am putting you on.