An embrace is what I need.
Your smile slides into an unsurprised moue
as you think I’m looking for the sly docking of
breasts and thighs and buttocks with my old-blooded hands.
Perhaps that’s there, in the mix,
Of course that’s there in the mix.
But it is only a crude mapping of the contours
of an embrace.
What I’m looking for is more, or less,
a way of holding onto what might soon be relinquished.
It is the making palpable of a feeling,
the blocking-in of emotions,
it is solid and bodily, fleeting and flowing,
a communion given and received.
An embrace is much more than the sum
of the negotiated locking of limbs.
It is a Chagall Crucifixion –
weightless and weighty,
holding up the firmament,
stretching space into the sky
to give room for entwined lovers to float
and for untamed cockerels to cry.
It puts the tangible totality of you
inside the physical and spiritual fragility of me.
Like a bare-foot prodigal
I open my arms to you and
prepare for loving or hanging,
blessing or breaking.
An embrace is finite. It has an ending.
Release, letting go, the recognition of distinction.
A dismissal, a beginning to its work
in the sending out.