Coltrane
You enhance the shopping
experience of my life. You are
my essential oil, a delicate glaze
on my ribs, that secret blend
of spices that strokes on my
guitar strings that sound so right;
you linger in my mind long after
the song has ended. You are my
anguish, my handwritten notes by
the coffee machine, and the body
language that makes me want to
cry with you and make love to you
and install art with you and
stir shit up with you. To let go of
distractions and connect with my
innermost thoughts and feelings,
to go on morning walks and gaze
at the Milky Way, to be more curious
about the future, to trust my gut.
To strip away the protective layers
and barriers, exposing myself to
vulnerability and raw experience,
stepping into my uncharted truth.
Official Time of Birth
I believe that you
existed in me before this
womb, full of silk fibre hair
and enrobed in fluids of
blood orange and honey;
there is an unbreakable
feeling that we have been
born together. I have seen
your image: a hidden yet
powerful bond, the weight-
lessness of two beings
ascending in unison, shedding
all earthly burdens; two
hummingbirds bringing gifts
of flowers to each other’s nest.
I knew you forever in an instant.
The One That Lights up a Room
After all these days,
when we catch each
other, time loses
its linear quality.
I could be shovelling
the driveway, going
for a walk in the woods,
reading The New York Times
on a Sunday morning;
the wind chime and
Japanese flute of your
voice reminds me that
seconds and minutes
are absent, a preciousness
that sparkles the way
your mother’s pearls did
when you said, “I do”;
a natural and spontaneous
smile arising without effort.
A Casualty of War
Solid, liquid and gas,
the ever-shifting states
driving the cycles of
creation from the smallest
leaf to the grandest
mountain peak. An urge
to survive, to remain
in the light, yet my darkness
came with the eruption
of light, an inferno, a heart
ablaze with tracer beams
of light piercing through me
with a murderous warmth.
Where the Sky Touches the Earth
In the dim glow of
the candlelight laid
bare in the midst
of a seemingly ordinary
gathering, a sudden grip
that disrupts the flow
of a conversation. Everyone
squirming in discomfort,
cringing at the raw truth:
her confession lifted the
weight of secrecy, breaking
free, shattering the warmth
and security of each other’s
arms. It was then she noticed
the tear traces on the pillow,
the scent drift of his aftershave,
the distance that now separated
them, his lips like a distant memory;
oceans apart, the imaginary line
where two lost paths would
one day never converge again.
Post-Terror Soul Syndrome
My therapy
comes from
driftwood,
nightmares
suspended in
dangling shadows,
metamorphoses
of once-rugged
wood shaped
and smoothed by
the ebb and flow
of the tide. A soul
sculpture, an echo
form, the relentless
action of ocean waves
infusing intention
into the arrangement
of each missing limb.
You may wonder to
yourself how it helps,
and the wonder is that
no one can know how
it hurts so much …
In the whispershade,
unfolding in the cool
mint-kissed spring rain,
the song makes me feel
like an instrument of
God’s everlasting peace.
«قراءة ذات صلة» POEMS BY OLIVIA HAJIOFF: The Ukelele Player, Sturgeon Moon, Moonplace»
image: George Payne
