By Virginia Jasmin Pasalo

 

Not love

it was not love, I think, at first
it was a recognition of something I owned
lost in the papers on my table
in the misery I tried to ease
for others, or so I told myself
not acknowledging my own

there, in the corner of my eyes
you sat, waiting for a window to open
on a door that was shut, beaten
by the weather, breaking its walls
uncovering, bearing open wounds
that refuse to heal

you must have seen me then
planting seeds to grow to build a forest
for others to have trees, at least
to talk to, and pick some wild flowers
on moments of losing, parts of themselves
stolen by circumstances
and the ravages of time

you came, for whatever reason you came
seduced by the uncanny fluids of wildlife
and the familiar sweat from the pores of my skin
it was not love, I think, it was recognition
a part of me came back
from the gentle rivers of the forest

 

To see you

let us together, press our lips, gently
with open eyes, without blinking
unencumbered by your long eyelashes
fluttering like a star, starved
of breath
let me see, let me see you this way
beyond the charm of your dimples
in the stark reality of your pimples
up close, so close
I can see the airplane cruising
at the center of your iris
dilating, dilating everything
and all I see is the soft, blinding light
and I can no longer see
with my open eyes, your lips

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