searcher

the circus came to town early that year. with its side show freaks and clowns, and us spinning inside like big tops. i laugh, hard, and salt water clings to my breasts. you say, "come here", and it sounds like pearls. and it feels you're dripping honey into my open mouth. and it wants to be mine. and i take it, because it's you and you're a a 57 Chevy caught in a half dream. my angel-demon, my idle, idyll, idol. you tell me my morning-after-mascara doesn't turn you off and you love me because I'd sleep on the beach with you.

and just as suddenly you're gone like the tribes of mapungubwe. buried sitting up, facing west. a golden chalice, sceptre and rhinoceros, along for the ride. i laugh and i think "you've finally reached the point-break".

and now, you're only this...

a modern savage in the flare of my camera. your little boy face and big man arms kiss me in the silhouette surf, down a hill of water, and i try to find the place where we lose ourselves, find ourselves and fool ourselves. (there are no signposts, so watch out for the fire breathing dragons).

[daddy, you didn't know your child had the heart of a butterfly. and a mind so sheer that it absorbed everything it touched. so you left your handprint on her skin and threw her dancing shoes into the gutter. and now you ask why she holds onto everything so tightly?]

somewhere there is a place where what's mine is not yours.