Cold Mornings follow Heated Nights
In the forgetting of essence, fights soon follow
The cold slap of feet on our wood-tiled floor
says it is time for lunch.
Rama & Sita are trilling —
they want to go out. We had spent
the night fighting. Such a rare crime
nowadays the shock still judders
through the body like a sonic wave
continuing long after the crisis is over.
Can we even remember what we said?
Can you? Words so often escalate
snagged on the heat of childhood
frustrations. It can still happen
despite everything we know.
There is always more work to do
when one forgets the Self is in her
& me & you. We only appear as separate
objects, occasionally forgetting
our essence. Splinters remain in my back
shards in feet & heart. We will pick
them as we do ticks from the cats.
How much luckier they are in their
unspeaking innocence. They fight
yet never argue, shake off where
we hold on. Mercifully, letting go
is quicker than it was.
Copyright Simon Heathcote
