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To strengthen the tie between body and mind,
I am here —
vast sky before me,
melting ice and sleeping earth.
She stirs, restless, turning
fire in the belly,
fire in the lungs.
I am not well, but I am here
to strengthen the tie between body and mind.
You said you missed me —
you left this message,
must have left it even as I passed those trees
with their bent arms reaching skyward,
even as I swung my own arms wide,
unimpeded by a companion's stride,
relishing my solitude,
outdoors, in my interior, you left
this message, saying you missed me.
It must be warm where you are.
The door has been opened.
I would turn the handle and swing it wide
but ice rims the sill.
"Take your arm off me," you said to me
at the theater. And you did not like my friends.
How many days can we pass together in the bed,
sun sinking outside the window,
half-cocooned in sleep, in some liminal interior?
How many nights will you wait until
I am dipped in slumber to say "I love you,"
so that I'll never know whether
I dreamt it, or my reply:
"All I want is to be understood."
Frances Donovan
February 1999
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