Ruis
Three words (one an action)
and the past comes flowing back
and alongside me, a future leading
somewhere else, my own
once upon a time.
The tales we tell only ourselves,
the hope we cherish inside silences
empty enough to enclose years.
My own once-upon-a-time.
My own pleasant lie.
The words of others carry me
past the questions, and breathless I ask--
is it really you?
You should have forgotten; the silence
is still palpable between us,
the candle burnt down long ago.
Possibility chokes us;
caution warning us of futures
grimy with anger and doubt
and futures silty with quiet.
The tales we only tell truthfully
in the dark, to ourselves, under covers
the mythologies we build in absence.
Three words, and the buried things
spin again. Distilled into air
this fire comes close and I shiver.
I breathe out assent.
This tale I might tell you.
1996