The Lily from the Rose

1
Nymphaea caerulea,
like pale blue smoke hanging from your lips,
and rivers running beneath your skin
A dab of essence oil at the hollow of your throat,
or the delicate lines of your wrists
Such fragile wrists
You would protest in pain as I tugged and tugged,
wanting you to play with me
No hand could pluck you from your watery rest
An Egyptian sacrament,
a divine province
There was no room for me

2
She has freckle on the middle toe of her right foot
I had forgotten that, but saw it quite clearly
Boney toes grappling anxiously with lush grass,
soles so dry they crack against pervading sunbeams
Watching her feet is easier than seeing her face

She can't sit still again
We both know what that means
Coming down, going up
One or the other, and far away from me
The truth hanging, an unfinished game between us
Upturned checker boards or cheating at Hungry Hungry Hippos
It's easier to play Solitaire than to lose to her

My eyes hang onto her toes like crooked lifeline
Deciphering each gnarled sentence in skin,
decoding how two so similar could fall so far apart
when our lives stopped being parallel

That freckle is the one piece of skin I remember
from before
A familiar mark,
a spot where we could maybe reach each other again
A bridge
Except, I have waited on this bridge before
and even today
you laugh about the knife edge you walk

I can only think
You're playing a game again
You're walking a blade
You're gonna get cut, and your toes will be severed from your foot
and the one thing I hang onto
will fall

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