Work Text:
On the run
There is a photograph of him
asleep on a bed
in a motel room,
his head resting on the pillow
– a dark cloud in the semi-darkness
of a hot July afternoon
(dandelion clock
ticking our time away,
make a wish, make a wish
that will save us before it’s too late).
He’s far away
in his own space,
in this moment
that will not repeat itself
in the years to come.
I can see the boy he once was,
an innocence no one can judge.
In that room in New Mexico,
or Utah, or Colorado,
I still believe we’ll be like this
from now on, one and separate.
And there is one thing this picture
will not reveal to anyone but me
because it happens outside its edges:
in his sleep he has placed
his hand on my leg
both claiming and protecting me --
Love does not diminish with time and age,
with the fear that will follow
nor be altered by pain,
the gaze of others
who cannot see what a photograph
recounts of love, of who we were,
what it discloses,
nor the secrets it keeps to itself.