Conversation

In the quiet of your living room we talked for

an hour.

Wide vistas, transparence. Always

at times like these , I look back, see –

a beautiful face flashes

and is gone. An hour of winter

reflected in sunset. We say our goodbyes.

Outside, it’s getting dark. Lights

are on in our house, and in all other

houses.

To have seen that face, such pain,

such joy. So many faces before, each

its own kind of incoherent and brief.

An hour is enough: living room

leads to kitchen, to a small cold hand

laying out plates for a meal years before

I reached out to touch

your silver tableware.

Hour of silver, hour of chill.

Face flashes and is gone.

Always at times like these I look back-

The room is bright. A beautiful face

is not a thing that light can reveal .

Deep-hidden face, soundless conversation

in shadows. A single hour-

ten years ago, would we have talked all

night?

An hour’s tenderness, held back like tears.

The years I have left will speed faster

than this hour. To vanish

in happiness: Flash, face. Be gone.

Always at times like these,

darkness falls. A child pouts,

and someone taps at the door.


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1 Comment

Debi Willis · November 27, 2021 at 5:05 PM

At first I had thought that YOU, Mercedes, had written this . I didn’t recognize the ports name at first. I thought you wrote it and I almost felt like I was walking in someone’s memory and i kind of felt like an intruder almost.

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