Gris-Gris, an online journal of literature, culture & the arts

Your Eyes

by Tina Kessinger

Your eyes climb into me,
white-knuckled, reeling still
from the loss that flung you,
spinning, out of your life and
into the night of a darker
constellation.

It was grief, sharp as roses,
that receded with years.
Each veil of it peeled you
like a knife, until you recognized
your life again, the familiar
brew of it gone cold with
remembering.

If I could take you back, your
voice would not be ringing,
unanswered, an alarm that threads
electric through the current
of my being. Each message I
bring is borrowed, unreal, a
cup of sugar in the bitter vat
of years.

Most of us shed our innocence
one skin at a time. Lightly,
we travel to our place of
forgetting. No one prepares us
for the losing.