By Fionnula Simpson
I hear the last pill played over my lips with a whisper breath
We both hear each other in the oldest way.
We are both white bone-ful and self-shed conscious
We both crave the holding above all other elements.
What is light, then, if not a merging breath?
If we had been given to each other in ancient sanction,
We would have been fulfilled enough.
Mental me is intimately detached from physical you, but better to have no mental self at all.
Fingers on my face and arms around my waist, I have never felt more than this.
We don’t wonder over stars and things while we are with each other.
A serene acceptance, I can’t help sighing, it can be the kindest force.
