My little jade heart flickered,

emerging

as if to remind me
our hearts
live in the light,
the glow
of being lit,
burning oxygen as
flame dances.

And I write,
sipping Chianti out of my white saki cup,
which barely holds two ounces
so the sips are truly sips,
and the heat is an illusion from the candle
unless I hold my finger
over the flame
as if I wanted to be burnt,
and I wonder
in my unrest
is that what we all want:

to get so close
we are consumed
by flames
because we can’t let
our ordinary life smolder us,

and I desire for more than nothing
to slip into a cocoon
with you,
wrap silk strands
around our naked bodies,
and rest,

and rest,

rest

until we awaken hungry,
nibbling at the edges to unwrap ourselves,
toes glowing and fresh
ready to take new steps on old gravel paths,
and I imagine our revival
slowly stepping away
from our shrouds,

we’d walk,

(not flutter like a butterfly
because our wings are still too damp for flight)

as we try to figure out
who we are
in this on-going dive and resurfacing,
as if we could
ever define
us
in something so soft as butterfly wings
that would be too simple,
too easy
because I know that I could never crawl into that chrysalis
with you
naked limbs curving together,
letting silk
wrap around our flesh,
holding our beating hearts,
out-of-sync
until we find the same rhythm,
an iambic pentameter
poetic pulses
as we close our eyes
to see
through our fingertips
to see the beauty we never really notice
because we look too much
at the aches,
at the hardships
our bruises and twisted ankles
only touching the surface
of our darkness,

as to be alive
doesn’t mean much if we can’t see in the night
with our eyes—closed—so that it all looks like swirling stardust
isn’t that what we’ll become
if we don’t take the chances,
to slip into
the dark
to see the lightness of our souls,
of our bodies wrapped around each other
under these silk strings.

 

 

Relephant: 

Make Love to an Artist.  

 

 

Author: Jes Wright

Editor: Renee Picard

Image: Courtesy of Author