Thinking
of you
a
prayer, silent and lunatic
settles
on my lips.
Memories
circling overhead
I
interpret, I guard, I construct
a
thousand & twenty narratives
tied
together at the wrist --
stories
adrift in an oil-slicked sea.
Ghosts
intensify with time,
and
the one who haunts me comes alive here.
I've
seen the earth burn --
that
same layer still burns within me.
we're
not the only victims
of
love and memory
The
sturgeon & other enormous roe-filled fish
swim
the depths, brushing the ruins
of
love and devotion carved into stone.
They
say the Shirvan Shah loved his daughter too much;
he
destroyed his own art
his
psyche melted like paraffin against flame when he lost her.
My
version of this myth is factually inaccurate -- I do not care.
I
taste the salt of the Caspian and the dust from the ruined calligraphy:
I
ask, must we always witness the destruction
of
our own life's mission, of what we have loved most?
in
life? in love? in art?
The
loss the inverse of the first miracle of meeting --
two
spirits woven into the same, thick carpet
of
dreams, desires, and unfading joy.
We
wanted to test the limits of meaning
as
our words joined the narrative of the carpet
complex
patterns & infinite repetitions
of
the name of God;
the
intricacy gave us hope
we
someday soon could know the power through the name.
The
design comforts me in its complexity
and
I know
the
carpet trains the mind to dream.
I
am not of this place.
I
am a blonde and I do not speak the language well.
Freedom
came too late for me --
I
thought words were enough
to
curl into cold, hard metaphors
as
precise as razors, as bright as steel.
Now
they coil my wrists behind my back;
my
own words make me helpless
as
I enter the waters slicked glassy by tears and oil.
It
is a vast mirror
of
the moon and the moon's own mirror;
the
face is of fire.
My
own desire is monitored
by
a western helicopter circling overhead
assuring
me that my words are nothing more
than
acceptable aphoristic phrases;
a
friendly but false cliché, if you will,
because
I've trusted images in computer screens
and
not the bodies woven into wool
by
those who still have faces
in
this faceless, rusting lost empire of souls.
The
helicopter is not new, but its rotors
chop
the air into layers
as
thick and lush as the days
you
spoke to me, you wove me into your heart;
a
carpet too complicated for me to comprehend,
newcomer
that I am --
and
doomed as the warm Caspian waters close over my head
my
hands helplessly wired behind my back.
I
am resigned but joyous;
the
fire still burns in the moon's pale mirror
and
I know I will emerge from my helpless depths
transported
on a carpet
that
has taught my mind to dream.
Susan Smith Nash
January 1, 2000