Wish

always the conversation to open avenues
long forgotten in the back of my mind.
hers be the thoughts that have wandered
in this forest of forgetfulness, whose trees we used to climb
to shout to the sky our longings now birds bringing
the bleakest of rememberings. how interesting
the way we hide in our sleep, how we find blankets for keeps
in the fragility of waking while we take snapshots of us dreaming.
soon we shall be washed by the reality we escape—which is light.
light which is something faster than the enunciation of names
we give our wounds. and tomorrow the healing begins:
i part the grayness of memories the way the old man does
the hair of his senility. and let me tell you,
you do not age the way a woman should. should there be a woman
to capture this heart burning in prayer, the same prayer
that burned down the house built by doubts,
be it you. into the fire, i say, be it you.
the birds are now returning to proclaim the secret of this wish.
and the forest is still, wide, and quiet. the avenues reopen,
the names and snapshots more vivid than ever.
the old man rises like a fleshed ghost and loses his hair in madness.
again we are perched on the same tree: love above all.
after all, all there is to love, is above.