I want to confess that the last minute is the bell tapered within his hands.

That single gesture of ominous struggle to wring out hazards and corridors. Rusted knobs like knuckles.

Eyelash fringe of frosted root. Cold clemency. Integrous beasts. We are jailed flutter. Inside. Within…

 

We free one another together.

 

I search for the maze of divine intervention and wings.

He is also the hour that sits in my wooden chair to love my fragility, and lemon pulp mouth; making utterances of sour and soot.

No one sees how we taper wings and solder metal. Who does? No one reads my poetry. Maybe, no one knows how we splinter wood for our fires inside us. Or, how we nourish the trees from our dewdrop eyes. Languid longings. Furrowed. We dig.

What dies within us is refurbished. Reconstructed. Collected from the ash. Red petal vein, and green thorn. A temporary fizzle from the contempt of past.

We thrive. Palpating. Shining. Splitting from them…

 

We are us.

Jose, we are...we really are.

 

My sweet Angel is drizzled by semantic lights and foreshadow from before me.

He told me these stories.

The road of return has dancers that will never resemble my awkward stance. He says.

He is populated by memories of a certain sway. Only of my chiffon dresses, floating away from puppetry. He follows.

Because, there is no applause from the theatrical. Carousel belligerence...

The rotunda of genuine hands. I mark these borders. He dances with me at the deadline seashore against flesh. I made it. We made it. Knocked by tragedy…

 

Get up my Love.

We know real life, Jose.

 

And jagged stars. Our necks stretched. Our sharp adoration. Hard to swallow. Yet, we gulp in continuously the fluster of heart strokes. We do not drown. Ring the bell into the deep. Fight for it…

My amor totaling the masses. All that is ever is us. No severances in our love of bliss and fire…

Salutation of hands and kisses until the last minute through the divine maze.

Forever intervening with lights through the fury and foes…

 

We are us.

We are us.

Tapering wings...Ringing bells.

Get up my Love.

We fight for it.

 

© Mimi Caneda Mata