Dreaming in her Cocoon Heart A Living Painting of Home

I

At the white table for two in her kitchen,
face to face,
keeping her feet warm with my own,
I sink my thumb into the heart
of the tiny orange she's peeled
and placed a slice between her lips.

She accepts the fruit with her tongue
and begins to taste it
as I tear away another slice for myself.
Holding it to my mouth before eating,
I take in its fragrance
with her scent
which still linger on my fingertips.

After arriving
we held each other until our legs grew weak.
The autumn air was cold with strangers' indifferent faces
but she was warm like home.
And though I entered her door later in the night
she had a fresh supper prepared
and waiting.

Maybe we are, no, no longer children.
Maybe.

II

She shies from my gaze,
as she often does,
turns away
slides off her chair
but walks around the table to face me,
wraps me from head to hops
with her immense wings.

She has told me time after time
that she has no wings
but I know she is wrong
because I saw her once,
on a day I walked way from her,
take to the air
to fly across the city after me,
wings flapping like summer
painting sun glares
in the nighttime of my pupils.

Now, reaching up, I touch her face
soft and smooth like a beating heart.
My hand will glide along this flesh
over and over
as she falls asleep on the sofa,
her head resting on a pillow
against my chest.

I will dream of our beginning
when we walked on the verge of Spring
the two of us, bleeding scabs.
We cam across two frail, crouched trees
tied to the ground,
who resembled us so much we laughed
and held each other
forgave each other
made love like two animals
in the grass
and never stopped
while the sound of traffic
grew into a river.

III

Hearing from her mother the temperature
outside is not too low
she steps out the door
bare foot.
While walking down the stairs
her flowing skirt trickled behind her
like water.
On the way to my house
the high way seems like a dead machine.
The windows of the car
are framed in fog.

I sing to her in a voice too faint.
I want to thank her for giving me
the greatest gift I've known.
Though maybe she is merely returning a part of myself
I left in her eyes the first day I met her,
returning to me in her sanguine fluid
and the words that fill these pages.

from November, 2001

X. Avier