Friday, October 7, 2005

walking through the skin of another life.


my beloved mister and me, we are walking through the skin of another life.

our son: he is beautiful. amazing. the best kind of gift that isn't a surprise.

and yet, we are humbled.

this morning, i gave our ziggy a sponge bath, perked up his rooster-jesus cock's comb hair.
then read him a book, the classic: Are You My Mother?

yes, yes, yes, my boy. i am your mother. it is the most astonishingly lovely thing your daddy and i have yet known and it makes us love and appreciate one another even more, magnifying the astonishingly lovely union of the two of us, now the three of us.

below is the poem that my friend the attorney-poet turned me onto years ago; i loved it then, when first she shared it, yet never really knew the depth of its wonder 'til now, as it's kind of how we feel, lack of slumber and magic intertwined, like a chagall painting:



For the Sleepwalkers

Tonight I want to say something wonderful
for the sleepwalkers who have so much faith
in their legs, so much faith in the invisible


arrow carved into the carpet, the worn path
that leads to the stairs instead of the window,
the gaping doorway instead of the seamless mirror.


I love the way that sleepwalkers are willing
to step out of their bodies into the night,
to raise their arms and welcome the darkness,


palming the blank spaces, touching everything.
Always they return home safely, like blind men
who know it is morning by feeling shadows.


And always they wake up as themselves again.
That's why I want to say something astonishing
like: Our hearts are leaving our bodies.


Our hearts are thirsty black handkerchiefs
flying throught he trees at night, soaking up
the darkest beams of moonlight, the music


of owls, the motion of wind-torn branches.
And now our hearts are thick black fists
flying back to the glove of our chests.


We have to learn to trust our hearts like that.
We have to learn the desperate faith of sleep-
walkers who rise our of their calm beds


and walk through the skin of another life.
We have to drink the stupefying cup of darkness
and wake up to ourselves, nourished and suprised.


--Edward Hirsch

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