by Gail Mangham, April 2013
I don’t
know how long I’ve been here. Do
you?
Sometimes I sit really still in that corner over there
Lean into the seam where the walls come
together, close my eyes,
Then I become the room.
The room breathes with me, in sync,
I can’t tell where my body ends and the
room begins.
Wall and floor become soft.
Cocooned in flannel, I sink into warmth.
Above me a face with blue eyes, lips
curved in a smile.
A finger touches my nose; a knuckle grazes my cheek; a hand cups my head.
My heart grows still. I stare into the eyes of this stranger
who will not long be a stranger—my mother.
I don’t
know how long I’ve been here. Do
you?
Sometimes I sit really still in that other corner over there
Lean into the seam where the walls come
together, close my eyes,
Then I become the room.
The room breathes with me, in sync,
I can’t tell where my body ends and the
room begins.
Wall and floor
become a bed.
Big, tanned
roughhewn hands gently
take my feet,
Tickle them
'til my body convulses with giggles.
Pulled into the
air against a huge chest
I smell tobacco
and Old Spice.
I feel a
beating heart not my own, but my
father’s.
I don’t
know how long I’ve been here. Do
you?
Sometimes I sit really still in that third corner over there
Lean into the seam where the walls come
together, close my eyes,
Then I become the room.
The room breathes with me, in sync,
I can’t tell where my body ends and the
room begins.
Floor becomes grass; wall turns to a tree.
Hot tears slip down my face, a forgotten
hurt.
Light touch of paw on a leg; cold touch of
nose against nose,
Raspy, wet stroke across my cheek, furry
warmth under my hands.
Compassion offered. The gift accepted.
Touch, the touch of my four footed friend.
I don’t
know how long I’ve been here. Do
you?
Sometimes I sit really still in that last corner over there
Lean into the seam where the walls come
together, close my eyes,
Then I become the room.
The room breathes with me, in sync,
I can’t tell where my body ends and the
room begins.
Floor becomes wet sand; walls his body,
Arms encircle me, legs twine with mine,
Damp skin against skin, cool lips against
neck,
Droplets of water from his hair trace their way
Down waterways between my breasts.
An ocean of touch--the touch of my lover.
I don’t know how long I’ve been here. Do you?
Sometimes I lie
really still on the floor, close my eyes
Then I become
the room.
The room breathes with me, in sync,
I can’t tell where my body ends and the
room begins.
Floor becomes hammock swinging in a warm breeze.
Dandelion fluff drifts in hidden currents,
Wind dances over my skin, scales the
mountain of my swollen womb.
Hands spread across rounded belly; I grow
still,
Listening and seeing with fingertips, then
it comes.
The somersault of life, the tiny punch of
hand and foot,
This,
our first, most intimate touch, the
touch of my child.
I don’t know how long I’ve been here. Do you?
Sometimes I
stand in the center of the room, really still,
Close my eyes
and become the room.
The room breathes with me, in sync,
I can’t tell where my body ends and the
room begins.
Then I wait, wait for touch, any living
touch.
Arms spread an
invitation; skin shivers with anticipation
Mind calls;
Soul summons; Heart beckons
Nothing,
Stillness, Silence! Breath taken and held...
Then walls,
floor, ceiling tremble and melt away.
At last, subtle
touch of a hand on my head
A sudden feast
for the spirit, a grace, a blessing, proof I am not alone.
I don’t know
how long I’ve been here. Do you?
It doesn’t matter--for when I close my eyes, you touch me.
