ICON

The clarity of dark
leads to a solitary flame,
as wax drips, a figure kneels to another,
three dimensional, the other, one
but the eyes cut, hands heal.

Eyes cut, hands heal,
hands heal, despite nails,
because of nails, that nail him, nailed to the past,
Angels nailed, past, present,
seemingly, the future drags on.

Remembers, children cry,
tiny bikes, rusty in the rain,
thrown amongst bright moulded plastic,
bricks finding foundation in uncut grass,
as children find perfection in television gloss.

If only, adults found it that easily,
amongst piles of dishes,
unwashed in the kitchen sink,
nailed, just the same, nailed,
“Don’t you want to kiss me?”

But he too received a kiss,
a kiss lead to the nails,
nailing him to the past, the present,
a future which drags on,
dragging love and all it’s remnants behind him.

“Don’t you want to kiss me?”
As we gaze at photographs,
and remember miracles,
miracles of your hair across my chest,
our limbs locked together in the night.

But today I talk in the garden,
you, unhearing, read a book,
eat chocolates, and we wait,
hoarding love and all it’s remnants,
in the hope of resurrection.