By Mihran Kalaydjian, CHA
Consultant, Strategist, and Writer
My left hand will live longer than my right. The rivers
of my palms tell me so.
Never argue with rivers. Never expect your lives to finish
at the same time. I think
praying, I think clapping is how hands mourn. I think
staying up and waiting for paintings to sigh is science. In another dimension this
is exactly what’s happening,
it’s what they write grants about: the chromo dynamics
of mournful Whistlers,
the audible sorrow and beta decay of Old Battersea Bridge.
I like the idea of different
theres and elsewhere, an Idaho known for bluegrass,
a Bronx where people talk
like violets smell. Perhaps I am somewhere patient, somehow
kind, perhaps in the nook
of a cousin universe I’ve never defiled or betrayed
anyone. Here I have
two hands and they are vanishing, the hollow of your back
to rest my cheek against,
your voice and little else but my assiduous fear to cherish.
My hands are webbed
like the wind-torn work of a spider, like they squeezed
something in the womb
but couldn’t hang on. One of those other worlds
or a life I felt
passing through mine, or the ocean inside my mother’s belly
she had to scream out.
Here, when I say I never want to be without you,
somewhere else I am saying
I never want to be without you again. And when I touch you
in each of the places we meet,
in all of the lives we are, it’s with hands that are dying
When I don’t touch you it’s a mistake in any life,
in each place and forever.
2 thoughts on “Other Lives And Dimensions And Finally A Love Poem”
You are right in this, you do not always meet on the same timeline you see. You live a half-life but you live. Not a sad thing really, because you get a chance again and again. lovely post ..
Wow, Leslie – Please allow me to thank you for your kinds words – I am deeply speechless.
I still want to connect with you on Face Book?