Smoke & Perfume
for Sonia Farmer
move away and still connect
and still in touch
up against each other
not the only place
not the only space to claim
draw away and find, room we made,
all our own, on our own
place for hugging, dancing
dining, conversing, or for books
in separate comfort zones
pull apart, still a part
something structured
of metaphysical space
in metaphysical time
much like two palms
game to play with string
a finger, a palm
another finger, another palm
until eventually tied up in string
in a pattern
able to pull but so far apart
I thought I could lose her,
thought I could turn my back and go
a game not over, must go on
thought I wanted to be rid of her
but what do we do about the smell
in our clothes, after a night out
© Obediah Michael Smith, 2007
4:10 a.m. 05/08/07
for Sonia Farmer
move away and still connect
and still in touch
up against each other
not the only place
not the only space to claim
draw away and find, room we made,
all our own, on our own
place for hugging, dancing
dining, conversing, or for books
in separate comfort zones
pull apart, still a part
something structured
of metaphysical space
in metaphysical time
much like two palms
game to play with string
a finger, a palm
another finger, another palm
until eventually tied up in string
in a pattern
able to pull but so far apart
I thought I could lose her,
thought I could turn my back and go
a game not over, must go on
thought I wanted to be rid of her
but what do we do about the smell
in our clothes, after a night out
© Obediah Michael Smith, 2007
4:10 a.m. 05/08/07
posted by Obie Quiet at 3:56 AM
4 Comments:
I love the bit about the smell on clothes.
Yes indeed. What do we do?
I'll see you this Wednesday. It will be my last.
Like a bird in my trap, you've shown up and I'm ecstatic, though ecstatic seems to make you tremble, timid.
Hope you've been writing. Hope those exotic, Bahamian places have inspired; like being able to get your hands into pockets of our parts.
So many places among these islands, I've not gotten into. Kemp Road though, is quite a place to bear witness.
When you're 40, I'll be 73. I hope to be alive and well. I hope you're a writer still. I hope we're still friends.
Your having changed preposition [in] to preposition [on] lessens the impact of the club upon our clothes, our closeness; do note as I do.
I do note.
I received your e-mail after our awkward conversation on Tuesday night. I'm sorry I came across as impatient. I was so tired when I got home that when my mother spoke to me I didn't understand what she was saying. Do you know that lack of sleep has it's own foreign language? We're not fluent in it yet.
So sweet of you to explain, ainoS, dear. I was hurt and I've been bitter ever since. With pen as well as erect penis, made of words, I've been retaliating, doing it to you without affection.
Only just now completed reading, online, Paz's "In Search of The Present" and you, like grace, come along and demonstrate, and indicate and open its door to me again, that little room together, place of acceptance we'd mutually agreed would exist, with hopes to widen.
Small as it was, so very readily, it had begun to shrink, like a fruit, withering before it was full.
You have things to teach me and vice versa. I am ecstatic about this; more enjoyable to me than threatening you with penis, stiff, bare, even if just made of words and harmless to you, ultimately.
Peace and love, love.
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