On Discovering Echoes

You so distant-
Head in hands, yellow hair over face,
Crossed arms shielding your gut-
It is you I wish to speak with.
Twisted minds, twisted building,
You can find a million places to sit alone
And stare at the mauve walls,
But when I put a hand on your shoulder,
You tell me to "Go away."
You accept a hug...
Yet when I say I'm sorry,
You say "Why? It's not *your* fault."
You liken the dodging of potholes on the road
To your life.
A yellow leaf drifts slowly down
Alone
From the tree;
A single melody line drifts hauntingly
Through my mind- it makes my eyes sting.
Please,
Don't run from me;
Don't hide yourself in concrete echoing sub-basement-
Echo I echo I feel-
The glaring yellow lights do not become you
(I hope you do not become them).
Once, as a young poet
In the ninth grade in a school building
Much like this building,
I wrote how people were stars:
Distant, beautiful, barely moving golden light;
Your tears are too real-
Your hoarse throat and red nose,
All hunched over in the chair,
Trying to ignore me.
As if I could shed my conscience and leave,
As if I felt you were being a nuisance,
As if I've never cried.
I want to bind your wounds,
I want to bind you to me-
Fascinating as the darkest cave-
But some must fall free...
Forever, alone.
Your pain I need,
I need to hold you so close in one moment
That it becomes a part of me,
Your pain sets me free-
I need those tears sliding down your face
To your chin, then dripping onto your hand;
May I put *my* hand there
To catch them?
This close I finally see the wall of stone,
The wall we mend,
There where I do not wish a wall-
Your tremulous smile rings false-
We are divided before we were even together.
And as you reassure me,
And we return to the group,
I am left thinking I have merely disturbed
Your private commune-
Confirmed: you once again duck out of the room.
So later, climbing empty stairs,
Hand on a chipped wooden bannister,
I hear the weeping melody line of El Shadai
Echo through this vacant house,
As I trudge up to my place
Alone.
I close the door behind me.

--Megan Morris, meikundayo@yahoo.com