Somewhere else (than here) I am...

I’m still seeing mountains, frosted and buried trees. A rabbit in his fist; but up here I don’t mind. Up here there is a taste for it in my mouth and we are grateful to God and the rabbit’s life. My clothes don’t matter here, it’s okay that my hair is long and has nothing but soap and melted ice to keep it. I don’t have to bother about pressed linen or a solid red lipstick line in order to read and cook and look out windows. We can listen to records but the snow’s paradoxical sound, the creak of the floor as a bare foot steps across it; the sounds of the house outside and the fire are enough. Maybe neither of us even talk much, we love one another because we can be alone together. Sometimes a word might start to rise up in my neck, but then to let it dissolve in with our quiet is just as rich a contribution to our discussion as speaking would have been. There is enough speech around us to lie still for centuries and listen.

Hearing his voice saying words is far more sacred than if we were in the city. Before nighfall he would sit on a rock in the white, a David with his lyre, cold smoke streaming from his mouth and nose while the rare and careful sounds came. We’ve listened to try and learn from the foxes, the crystal ice snap, the stars in small puncture wounds to the velvet-thick heaven. The pouring forth – he won’t touch it because here is a place redemption hadn’t needed to come until we did. We know we are being sanctified, but the pouring forth is an ancient holiness and to join our water with the voices, our voices must first know a harmony or create in reference to its rhythm. If he ever sings, I lie down and touch the scars on each bare twig that will swell into buds.