Does your google picture look like this?

What if our identities were stamped on our backs
shoulder arc
nape of the neck
or the valley the back blades
scoop
to balance the breast-plates?

What if our
rounded or flat buttocks
standing solidly on one leg
or two
easing our tiptoe
through sand and gravel
without toppling,
what if these parts stood for
our faces in a line-up?

Who would recognize us?

to read what isn't said...

My mother used dreams to
reveal her wishes, talked about shades
of future events as though she could see them in a movie scene
or at the bottom of the coffee cup she cradled for hours
or in the whisper of trees as we walked home from the farm
after a long day picking olives
each a wish expressed by an ancient symbol
she knew so well
ordinary objects to ward off evil and offer
protection all the way home.

But it was her ordinary
gestures
like the re-positioned the cover over my cold feet
offering  lemon and honey water when I had a cough
that kept the affronts of the day behind closed doors.

The here now

I cry
for this life
filled and unfilled with other lives,
for the child who once grew before my eyes
and friends who passed too
each a void
that sent my heart and brain
in search of reasons
for I have become
lesser
as if this moment of light
in a vast firmament
is the privilege
I'm allowed to witness
and the story I'm left with

Reflections

Sitting with a neighbor, talking about art
or such things that would
help us
forget we may be
on the opposite end
of a political battle
being fought
a few
yards away.

I just want to hear a voice on the other side of the fence when the electricity is down.

You can follow their eyes...

Sitting in this proximity
a chair away-art pieces on the floor waiting for space above
legs counting beats
chins and heads swaying
music presented as anticipated
each wind instrument distinct pitch
as it was intended, somewhere a couple of centuries ago
in a castle chamber
among corseted ladies and tuxedoed gentlemen.

Out of the rain and the wind
in jeans and sweatshirts, we followed the musicians'
eyes move across the pages
worrying about what came next, when our turn came up
to stand up and read our verses
written just yesterday, just for this audience who came
to be entertained
whenever they are out of their houses
leaving their burdens behind
never anticipating the secrets revealed in
such spaces.

Watermarks.

We change hair style
as our body stretches out
to fill  space beyond itself;
the eyes, a new stare
the stand, a new silhoutte
the moment, a chance
to reach new horizons
escape this body
just even  for one day.

Shakespeare?
Each comedy a variation
of the previous one.
Mistaken identity.
Reversal of roles.
A male not a male.
A sister pretending to be her lost brother.
A poor playing at being rich.
Each escaping the space he occupies.
Each giving the audience hope for the price of the ticket.

We leave marks
with what we do,
the promises we keep
the words we choose
the things we buy.

We scribble on tablets
scratch notes on violins
sounds and signs etched in dark caves
with infinite entrances and exits
declaring
that once
in the fog
you recognized us.