Writers name experience. They locate the human situation within a universal scope of language to bring us home or to a new and unfamiliar place. The writer takes you, hand in hand, palm to palm–a squeeze to let you know you’re not alone.
Your thoughts, your feelings—your experiences
have resonated with me
have plucked a string of memory
and resounded a simple twang
a familiar, wistful pitch.
I remember the furtive act
moving into the warm
embrace of man—a man who lets me in,
a man I let inside of me—to the dark places,
washing over me, unexpectedly.
I am not all-knowing, but I do know this:
You are good. And you will be good.
You will rest softly in banks of glittery snow,
like an angel,
and the steady wind will cover your misery.
When you rise up to greet the morning,
the air that you feel on your tongue
becomes our air, whispering.
Your air is the same air as mine.
Our words no longer inhabit the space
Of this stationary vehicle
In a liminal place
This illustrious campus
Where your hand met my hand
Where your fingertip touched mine
And they swirled together they glided like water
Through the creek bed where
The snow outside is quiet like us
A little world
of relationship with you