Dear Saskatoon,
This is the space I fashion:
the cup of my hands
for holding the salt water of crying.
This is the space of a long held sigh –
finally escapes,
a rare beauty,
a prayer for what will never come to pass.
This is the space between, within our chests
as we embrace
and ready to part;
lips sharing between us
the hidden lamentations of which we dare not, shall not whisper.
This is the space between our palms
enclosing the knowledge of fingers intertwined no more;
questions which cannot be answered:
shall I ever again feel the warmth of your soul
on my soul?
shall these scars ever fade?
This is the space between our breaths –
fear, the fear I abandon, a shield clattering to the floor
so I can take up new moments of terror,
as I summon the one, the one with a sword
who shall enter, enter, and aid
in the space of saying
farewell.
This is the space within the pulsing of blood,
between one drumbeat and the next –
a psalm of thanksgiving,
inner flowering
for the ones who came with me on pilgrimage.
This is the space opening between stars
stretching to hold memories:
sweet nectar, broken vows,
feet pounding the floor, summoning the gods of music with our sweat,
cries of new babes in the vastness of night;
the space which holds the promise of sunrises yet to be born,
and footsteps on roads which have not even been laid.
This is the space between alleys and broken fences;
abandoned places where I weep for
this rough, unpolished jewel we call a city – my lover –
filled with whores and new hopes,
this fortress of familiar,
the corners and streets and great cement towers,
the grates and bridges, glaring neon, creaking steel,
jazz and pot smoke and rotting waste –
a map locked within,
comfort and loss.
This is the space of a canyon,
where the echoing sounds of gratitude linger:
quiet murmurings, litanies of thanks for the places you cut me.
This is the space of leaving.
