Repair

Anton Mauve

This plow won’t crack 500 years of compacted, contracted
territory, and I am tired.

Whistle me up a rhythm to sustain,
to keep my tongue fluid with the passwords that grant access.

Vibrate the air waves curved like a gray ribbon of smoke, an entreaty
for your ears, the heart that is witnessing this world in its dying,

while denying, as if our life depended on it. Code words waft off
a world I cannot enter. I wake each morning, though I am

reluctant to relinquish the safe space of my body
under a warmth of feathers. A moment in between things.

My Italian ghosts call for chiarsocuro, paintings that throw shade with the light and dark; a copious perspective.

Don’t repair me with gold, anything that adds shine.
Liberation whispers secrets beyond its own rumors.

He calls the unconscious: the imaginative. Here shadow work has space to breathe, and shame falls like the last red leaf in Fall.

My hands are empty, yet 
full of dancing.