What the Waves of the Past Bring Back
Sunsets, blown light bulbs, empty vodka
bottles, whiskey, wine. A closet with all my
sister's dolls. Turntable, cobwebbed corners,
music like sea water. Giant walnut tree,
sand and dolphins, books, branches with ravens.
My mother. My father. Dead dogs and cats.
Ashen light, graveyard dirt, silence
and a river. Ropes, belts, poetry, orgasms.
Summers, juicy as apricots, the whiteness of snow,
the old house. Hospital clothes, famished
window, heavens. Lost keys, darkness,
cigarette smoke. Panties, bras, naked bodies.
A torn hymen wrapped in a silken dream.
Screams of pain, cries of delight. Childhood,
warm clothes, warm hands. What the waves
of the past bring back never left - an empty wallet,
children's smiles, unnecessary hatred, vain love,
a beautiful woman composed of night and light
that dissolves into the air. Homeless benches,
aching teeth, roads, knives. All the sleepless nights
and suicidal tendencies leading to the choice: now
or later. If nothing went away with the waves
of the past, then how would we be proud of
our scars, our wrinkles? Sometimes it is nice
to know that in some future day, you too will
return on the same waves to someone - like
the aroma of coffee, the splash of a wave, the breath
on the cheek - and he'll smile or frown, and keep
walking.
Author: Peycho Kanev
Photo: Roman Kraft on Unsplash
0 Comments