Sacred Scars

For MM

Emily Dickinson to her true love Susan Gilbert:
“We are the only poets,” Emily told Susan, “and everyone else is prose."

Love turns words from stones into birds.
And how is that done anyway?
It’s a trick that only love knows.
 

And why do you fear that longing
that is love?

And why do you run away as fast as your little feet will carry you
Into the night with your hair streaming behind you
And your eyes wide with fright.
 

Do you run from me?
Or do you run from a wound
Inside you
That doesn’t heal?
 

Maybe your wound
Is like pine pitch hardened to Amber.
A stone exuding warmth and radiating light.
Maybe your wound is the colour of honey.
 

And when I touch the scar
that covers your wound
Does it bleed beneath
Does it weep within?
 

I don’t know
Because I only see
The tattoo on your skin.
 

You run.
You hide.
 

Your eyes
Shine out from the thicket.
You hold your breath.
You stay perfectly still.
 

But a sigh slips from your lips,
A gentle giving up,
A reluctant giving in.

 

And I catch this sigh
As it flies by
And hold it for a moment.
 

Your sigh is a tiny amber bird,
Melted from your wound,
Flying into my cupped hand.
A mercurial, ephemeral bird.
A shivering, shimmering bird.
A yellow sunbird,
With warm wings of liquid light.
 

This bird, your sigh,
Encased in resin,
Suspended in time
Through all those years,
Lodged in the silent prison
Of your dark breast,
Is finally free
And impatient for flight.
 

And now,
It’s my turn
To hold my breath,
To stay perfectly still.