Vignette

Put yourself in the shoes of the character,
Says the English teacher.
Tell the examiner what the girl may be feeling.
Even if the old men’s backs are facing you,
You can still imagine their emotions.
They must be so happy to have visitors
For once,
I hear myself say to each of my classes this week,
Over and over.
What is it like to describe a picture of grief?
By looking at eyes and describing the pinch of
Hands in iced water? And later,
That burning feeling when you take them out,
When room temperature feels like the heat of
Home in the midst of an argument?
So far removed from the scene,
I cannot say I understand. I try,
Of course. Even without a picture
I dream, sometimes.
My mind transports itself to a life like yours.
In the middle of this dream there are two people
Walking into the distance. Their backs face us.
His hands are tired with deep lines of longing.
They hold hands but those lines don’t dissolve.
They are happy but never complete.
There it is cold too, even with another.
Yet they are moving towards the bright altar,
Leaving behind the precious night of the self.

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