Author: heather

If snails could speak

imagine the ponderous space

between utterings

slow soundings of kindness

freed from syllables

 

their headpieces

tasting wind

so near the earth

 

following no path,

leaving shiny trails

unnoticed

in their own view

 

carrying home

as a natural weight

 

bellies

propelled by ground

 

their words

in shapes

of silence.

There were four triangles

resting under ice

in my freezer

 

left there at Christmas

when my sister,

who made them by hand,

went home.

 

I was prostrate

to listen

 

that day in the sun

before the grief welled up

 

and although meditation

sounds like sitting still

my body’s wisdom

turned on the oven

 

waited for heat

 

let those four delicacies

warm my kitchen

 

then my belly.

 

So when the question arose

that prompted my sobs

 

knees on the ground

 

the sweet taste of salt

 

was already in my mouth

 

the tears added savour

to unravelled caring

 

all this love

pointless and deep

 

lonely

and connected.

Not quite crazy

I let myself be touched

by the freefalling void

 

the utter senselessness

of being alive

or dead

 

meaning

is just a convention,

syllables sounding

in a muscle

under a scalp

 

and somehow shared

occasionally

in almost-empty rooms.

 

Speaking of illusion

seems cruel

 

so we mask ourselves

in kind intention

 

and envy the freedom

of the naked.

 

Despite my yearning

for beauty in any form

 

what touches me

keeps peeling form away

roughly

gently

 

with each awkward

breath.