Going Wading

Wade in the water.
I wade in up to my neck,
The cold collects round my feet, in my veins
Grabs at my pulse that is faster, now, running for me and you both.

I almost hear your stare, your clenching hands,
I feel, you know, such love, you know.
In my throat, sitting on the clavicle.

You do not see, how I want for your days to be roses, carnations,
Given out and opened to the sky,
Cornucopic views, and yet want for me
A muse, a delicate hand
But still, your muscle memory that I use.

I offer, a heart cleaved open.
Cleaved out, with wandering hands reaching down to palm the juice
And still I go wading to you.

I leave, from the warm fat pearls of sand,
The land of smoothing and sweetness
Let the water blanket over my head wet and slick as sadness
Clammy cool hands of want, beneath which I must give over and give up.

But soothed and slapped, my hands are still
Maker’s hands, soft on the potters wheel
Of memory.

And as I mold I leave in my thoughts those winking lights, old tea kettles and weber light dancing under the stars.

I Leave my soul’s old caverns, dark and white and full of boiled-up pews.
And full of you.

I Sing, still and always, and I grasp at the ways to forgive. Because it is still the case that you wander, your hands are empty and
You know not what you do.

Should I say a prayer
In the powdery dark, do I say enough?
The sly old fragments of truth are blunted the waning light.

The refrain is there again, tonight.
A whisper telegram so slight.
Tapped out codes that say unsightly things
And breathe the blues

I keep my hands moving, reaching and soothing, subtle in their earthly tune.
And yet I hear something whine.

Copyright Bianca Black

Image taken by Nicole Schwartz, used with permission CC BY NC