A History and the Thick Mouths. Chapter 1.

(chapters 1-6 in mikl's first book 'Dandelions that Have Held your Breath' poetry and other writings,

published march of 2013. oliviaedenpublishing.com)

A History and the Thick Mouths.

 

Chapter One

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There was once a boy, a very strange enchanted boy and we all have so much to learn from love if we are going to survive these days, or deserve to. There is a gentle here that I would like to find, there are places so near for our cleansing to aftershine and if this is your face turning to my face let the heart tell you why, let me tell you why, and there are all these reasons.

 

They must have organized each end with a new beginning somewhere holy and sacred; beneath sheets, beneath him, beneath her, they must have chosen to swallow that silk story and announce the death so sudden. And she says, I didn't mean to break your heart and he knows, and of course he knows, but, standing there so stained, and he replies You didn't break my heart, you only broke my dream, and we have to listen to their silence now hidden behind these heaving destinies, and we have to hope that some still hand is holding all of these shatterings, so still. But children still, run with arms wide and life is so loud when it begins and here we are.

 

They had lived in Grass Valley for two years before he ever wrote on her. He was always inside her, in one form or another. And there is a beauty there. But they had lived in Grass Valley for two years and one night, her back to his chest, he began to write about being within her, while he was within her, upon her; across skin in small black letters he told the sonnet of and they know that some things never happen again, and there are goldens collapsing upon us constantly, wave after wave of surprise me surprise me and together their eyes go wide,  at themselves, at the enormous bell of core striking core and life is for important things. They promise, and

 

Who would I tell  if not for you? I've tracked your mirage across an America of mirages and remember the first night after it wasn't the right door, yet it was your door, and somehow I never found the other door, and your door was the right door, and hello my name is, and eyes dark like my eyes dark and hair dark like my hair dark and I have whiskey you have wine and our mouths were so thick tasting when all of this lightness began. Your neighbor listened to music even though he was deaf, and yes.

 

Later when the lists enveloped what we were attempting to keep so free, we saved things from drowning by teaching them to love these shadows and to sing the moonlight down to you with a soul that is bright and is vibrant and is a witness. Because life is for things to be important. And somehow in the wreckage of what was left behind we built this sanctuary, we found this pair of eyes that we could hold our honests in and there is nothing greater than a life that is kept secret by a life that is kept secret and to the song of these dear borders fading we spoke with new tongues, and memorized the long road home.

 

They spent a summer talking beneath the redwoods. There was a curiosity to the way they knew. She would take his hips in her hands and turn him to the left, so the sun would not be in his eyes. He would take her hips in his hands and turn her to the right, so the sun would not be in her eyes.. It is a dance. A very careful way they care.

 

Somewhere elsewhere I imagine the sound of two bare hands. There would be steeples and something to write with. I would ask questions. At the end of that story there would be something tearing down, across the face, brief, and hurried, and a tone would change... an accent would announce not today, but the yesterday still lodged in it's blood, but for the first time, it would be noticed.

 

The way that some splendids are so ghostlike in the way they weave through us. In the ever present hollow of these chests something glistens and coos. Have you kept your pockets clean asks the fading daylight sheathing above the insisting hills and we aren't sure sometimes.. we have tried of course but there are roadblocks here, occasionally  one must tread through wild lands and wild hearts to find the way around, and things break there, in the valley of those nights, it's always been difficult to feel innocent when you know that at least once in your life you were guilty of shedding innocent love.

 

I remember when my father retired and how much peace he had when he realized what he had stored away would be enough.. And I wonder where they store all of this intent? There are peninsulas abound and this scream that is holy and is pure has wanderlust and the determination of an earth quake. There was that morning she turned her face to his face and they swore to never step away again, that every logical warning to restrain the outflow of love and wonder was a lie and a dangerous one. If something is going to shine, they held, let it shine now.

 

Yet all around them was a sea of pages torn too swiftly. They recognized that there are wounds, here, between and upon them. You should have seen the eden hands they brought to bear with the patience of caverns and mothers. Life glowed itself backward and forgave erosion and disasters, they had arrived here, together, they could not hate the path that led them to each other, for what truly is waiting, when it's what you have been waiting for?

 

She was a bartender a few nights a week. He worked with his hands, early and outside. When those hours came and they found themselves alone they would think of not being alone. But never with a longing. Almost as a visit, to an old companion who sang solo beside you and all the while knew it was merely the intro.  He left her a note in her right slipper that said when I was alone yesterday I was happy, and  I wanted you to know. Because look at how much you've done in me.

 

The way you can leave a gentleness in the paths of those we love. The anticipation, the joy. Of watching, and suddenly, as though by ambush, someone beams. They littered the house with kindness and surrounded one another, in the best of ways. They both knew, to truly both know. Years before, when it began, but only barely, he asked her if he could write her, that there was something new that needed to be told, and he asked if he could use her voice, her face, her courage, her shape, and self, to tell their story before it came to pass, or did not, and she said yes. What do you imagine belief looks like? Do you think you would notice it in an eye or a walk? I'd like to believe so.

 

Bodies bend with the courtship that the day ripens in context and sweat. There is a giving here, they are so generous with each other, an extravagant oh I insist. He would taste her every morning and try to guess her dreams. She would often dream of the mornings when he would taste her and try to guess her dreams. They welcomed themselves.

 

There was a funeral, their first together, and it wasn't someone overly close but goodbyes always make people overly close. The anecdotes were heartbreakingly dull and after so many sighs he tells her he will write an entire book about loving her. Dreamlike, smoke and water and perfect. After the funeral they went to the hospital to look at  the new borns, then the train station, it only felt right.

 

There is a deep truth in being at home enough with someone to kiss them while your lips are dry. And happiness may not be the greatest of things to hear, but it should be. What love can build is sturdy and collect what you came here for, undone splinter of the better place. Watch the orbit they fashion through the myth and the come of being human and being grateful for these dusts of history and dusts of letting go. If you were in their place could you say you would do any different? If you were to tally the halves of moons and the betrayals of angels you would leap just as surely. They only had what they are holding in the other ones hands.

Reviews

[barton smock]

(there is nothing greater than a life that is kept secret by a life that is kept secret)

(You should have seen the eden hands they brought to bear with the patience of caverns and mothers.)

in this, akin to nesting dolls, or being delicate with bubble wrap. but not delicate in that way. fiercely so. moreso. I'll be there for the book.

[mikl paul]

thank you so much for reading.

[John Destalo]

Quite a beautiful mystery. An ever unfolding love story. I really like how you make unexpected words plural...honests and splendids.