Sink Water

Blood in the sink water
floats along like an inky red storm cloud
roiling away from the source in the foot
a deep long gash

A gash is sliced into the brown curtain
by the angry slash of a sharp blade
in a long-ago movie about the affairs of the rich in sunny Morocco

The foot in the water is being washed clean
by the hands of the forgiving one
whose touch soothes the trickling gash
until the murky cloud of red gains no more flow from the foot

The gash stays in the curtain
exposing the fluffy white stuffing underneath the surface at the edges of the rip
and no one fixes it
as it serves as a reminder
for all the jealously and blood red anger of the past
and explains the tension that still lingers in the air

As the rain fell softly a woman opened the curtains and stepped through onto the balcony
Barefoot and dressed in a red cocktail dress, v neck and satin
And she opened her palms to the sky, curling her fingers against the light touch of the falling raindrops
Caressing her soft skin with a love she had never felt

And in her mind she was flying far away
To the top of the hill where she would climb as a little girl
And look out over the streets of the town
Back when she wasn't so lonely all the time

On the top of the hill was a tree
Old and gnarled and short in stature
That she would lean against and sit in the half shade under the scattered leaves
And imagine a place far away
Where a castle stood tall and she could climb to the top of the tallest tower
And she could eat wild grapes and read in the warmth of an autumn sunset

A painting hangs on the wall of a room
Of a glass of wine tilted slightly on the surface of a marble table
Red wine
White marble
And the wine slightly sloshing against the side of the glass
As if it might spill
Or right itself and sit still on the flat and even table

In the same way a choice hung in the balance
Of a man sitting in an old chair in the room with the painting
With an old telephone perched on the table beside him
A decision to seek out his long lost children
Or to forget about it and exist in limbo, never knowing
Which way was right? which way was the righting of the glass?
He did not know
And might not ever know
But his heart leaned one way
And the heart of an old man
is a lot stronger than it might seem

Years ago a thunderstorm boomed out around a house in the country
With crackling lightning shooting across the dark sky
And cascading rain thundering down
And inside there was a warm fire
And a soft couch
And a warm friend

Will I ever be able to write anything but portraits?
To weave in the details of a full and deep picture
Or can I only write beautifully of small scenes and glimpses
Of a portrait of a person or a place

Some smells elicit long ago memories
Faint glimpses caught on the breeze
Or strong whiffs of perfume from a passing stranger
Like a song they take you back
As only some things can

Simultaneously I want to fade away and I want to live
Life is that hopelessly deep
Without a chance to capture all the color in the head
but just maybe a chance to come close
The golden rule of respect
is often cited
But the golden rule of life is much less known or understood
The rule of life is that no matter how full of life we get at one time
We will always be back for more
As memories can be very strong
But they are not quite enough to suffice

Blood slides down the white painted wall
Like rain sliding down the outside of a car window
Looking out with nose pressed up against the glass
Against the wall, a hand, softly pressed
A jagged cut across the skin of the palm

As the first drops drip against the floor below
The hand is taken away
And held out under the noontime sun
And-
slowly-
the warm soft fingers of the sun's rays
heal the wound that crosses the hand
and sew the skin back together