You lay on your side naked fetal in a field of wild flowers and summer afternoon heat. I had no wings —though I imagined them— yet I hovered over you covering you from the elements. When I stood your halo pulsed.
We went to a Shushwap Medicine Wheel in the summer of Oka. The eagles soaring above often appeared and disappeared out of and into nowhere, despite our search for continuity in their flight. My sweat lodge lasted days [liminally]. When you emerged from the moon lodge I asked how it went. Your eyes looked at mine into mine through mine around mine all over mine, and you said —ambivalently— that you couldn’t say. You aren’t able to say? You aren’t allowed to say? You shouldn’t say? You aren’t moved to say? As we walked to an after dinner meal Your visage was substantial and weighty yet light and fluid and opposed to gravity. Your halo began to envelope your neck and head, pulsating.
You lay on your side naked fetal in a field of wild flowers, bees, and summer twilight. I had no wings —though an eagle appeared above— I hovered over you covering you from the elements [the cooling sky]. When I stood your whole body aura was pale and rose and fell with your breath. Time —clearly— was counting down.
We were sitting on a boulder in March on the west shore slope of the Maritime Museum marina, facing the setting sun grinning into crispy winds and the intermittent spray of the life in the sea. Your ears were reddening. Your fingers icy. Your resolve was firm. Squeezing your eyes closed, inhaling deeply then holding your breath you willed your body temperature to rise miraculously beyond where the wool sweater expected. Your glow spilled out your eyes and cocooned your whole body, capturing parts of me —and the boulder— inadvertently. I’ve never since felt that rich golden hue.
You lay on your side naked fetal in a field of wild flowers on a northwestern shoulder of Mount Baker, chirping insects, and midnight blue sky. I longed for wings —the moon began to creep up over the glacier— I hovered over you covering you from the elements [the cooled sky]. When I stood I watched you wake, yawn stretch sit up hug your knees grin, feel the glow emanating from your bones, close your eyes and fade into light, leaving me to walk back down to the forest alone, grinning, yet with tears of loss streaming down my face.
The last time I ever saw you was the following winter in the pub at SFU where we sat together sharing a huge hot chocolate with Baileys, reading our respective books, pausing and watching the winter wind pelt —then sprinkle— the rain onto the windows. The moon wouldn’t rise that night behind the overcast darkening sky. Because of this, you looked up out the window and back at me. Borrowed time. Ineffable memories. The flux of moments. Your waiting. My wondering. The feeling of loss of contact of fleeting contact and days gone by. You stood, packed your gear, and walked out into the rain, to face south, look up into the brooding sky, take the pelting rain on the chin, let the wind whip your hair wildly and stare until the clouds thinned then parted and the moon returned to you.
Copyright 2002, Stephen Buckley 07.24.02, 1:15-2:50am
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