by Zinta Aistars
Tell the pattern –
tap of new rhythms,
secrets slipping spools,
sacred mysteries escaping traps,
the accumulation of minutes,
hours, days, weeks, months, years
becoming a multi-layered
and infinitely starred universe,
a bursting cornucopia of flame,
a tangle of sweet, a web of sour,
thread weaving through thread,
fabric of endless sky,
unfolding tapestry, blended weave:
here is you, here I am,
and where the dance begins,
there is the elastic hope –
in this, the colors won’t clash.
History filtered through future,
today a mist passing over all,
tomorrow becoming a fast yesterday.
And here you are, in that
yesterday, and here,
today sliding instantly
out of a knot of loosened
tomorrows, there, now here,
here, you, and
still holding my hand.
The tangle this – that you, the savior,
are also my downfall,
the cure held out in
the same soft hand
that knifes my throat.
My comfort is where the pain
takes first blooded root,
and healing happens
by the entry of a wound.
Inflict your love then,
like a slap and thrust,
may I be throttled
by affection, whipped by your devotion,
comfort offered in an executioner’s
stranglehold, to be salved
by your sudden and most tender approach-
I cannot take this road without you.
No one bleeds you like those you love,
no one loves like those who bleed.
(Photo of Zinta taken in Barra de Navidad, Mexico)