you had one subject
the body
others draw
what the body is, how it endures
pleasure
but
your flesh
speaks something else
every line an outline
of that dark matter that is
not even the self staring from a face,
not the longing to be seen,
not what desires –
even our scorn a form
of desire –
not the pooling of belly and arm
as if the weight of flesh
bends the air
but rather
what self, longing, flesh
are shaped by
what the body proves
moved slowly across
the field held down
by stones, stitch of trees
what colour was the mist
x-ray grey
how still was it
the IV drip before it falls
mist always at a distance
always as far as sight
I stopped the car to watch it cross the field
black earth breathing its winter breath
spasmed the boulders in the field
then the world reformed
stillness again
a lens of water adhering to a branch
slowly I saw it was the stones themselves
that had come alive
bison
the field disappeared in the mist
still the bison stood animal earth invisible
the trees too remained as before
lines of graphite on wet paper
the drop of light on the thorn
still as before
all day you were busy dying
we did not think you would draw again
then suddenly weeks of work
in a few hours
you dug breath from your lungs
knew resting would leave you
too exhausted to continue
you opened your eyes
gripped my hand, your instinctive
joy
covalent bond
impossible strength
we have never failed each other
I told you how the bison woke
the earth
I knew you were listening
perhaps
you heard
the IV drip
before it falls
earth of the body
where a life grows
and muteness
is renamed
grief
the precise space between
those two words
you loved like a conspirator against everything
that has power to defeat us
you led me from the cemetery
your grip was firm
grief is firm