Friday, January 21, 2011
What burns grows back.
The sky is always in motion.
Don't kiss the one with the wind in her blood.
Don't become devoted to her skin.
Watch the way she handles an egg.
Does she warm it first in her hand, as if it might surrender a sigh
Or a peacock?
When she kisses it beyond all saving
Against the rim of a pretty kiln-fired bowl,
Does she coax or crush?
Does it matter to the broken shell?
Still, if you kiss the one with pilfered turquoise on every finger,
If you become devoted to her scent, her deep Indian eyes, her hair--
Remember that bones can birth a second, more careful heart,
What burns grows back,
And the sky is always in motion.
photograph by Metin Demiralay