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She put her hands above her face—

Fingers long and slender—

Extended her neck so she could see

Behind the shadow and under the moonlight

As though a longer neck would help her eyes

To focus.

 

 

It is funny the things we do

When we want to

See

What is real.

We stand up taller

Use a cloth to clean our glasses

Rub our eyelids and

Open them wide.

Perhaps

We are the only animals

To do such things

And the only animals that

Lie.

We have to make concessions.

 

 

He cupped his hands to the back of his ears—

Strands of hair got in the way—

Hid behind a tree so he could hear

The songs she sang to herself

As though his hands were gathering

The sound.

 

 

It is desperate the things we do

When we want to

Hear

What is real.

We bend at the waist

And strain our backs

We twist our necks and

Close our eyes to block out

The rest.

When we want to hear

A voice and

Presence of another

It is a choice.

We cannot rely on chance.

 

 

She lifted her nose toward the winter branches—

Her neck lay all the way back—

From inside the crook of an Oak

She could vaguely smell the cigar he smoked

The dampened mud rose to

Camouflage the scent.

 

 

It is urgent the things we do

When we want to

Smell

What is real.

We close our eyes

Soften our lips

Lift our nostrils

Like wisps of smoke

To conjure the

Air floating in invisible wafts

Around us

Brought down by

A spell wrought by the will

To discover the whole instead of a sliver.

 

 

He touched the soggy leaves under his shoes—

Buried his fingers all the way through—

To ask the earth if she was near

His fear was that he would not feel

Her footsteps

So he crawled until an indentation appeared.

 

 

It is passionate the things we do

When we want to

Feel

What is real.

We bend our knees

Put our faces to the ground

Cover the backs of our heads

With our hands

And roll our bodies down

As low as we

Can go

Because the

Earth will tell the truth

About how to lay ourselves low.

 

 

She kissed the back of his head—

He was kneeling in the mud—

Told him without words

That he was found

And to the ground

She sank beside him.

 

 

It is magnificent the things we do

When we want to

Taste

What is real.

We open our mouths

Let the edge of our

Tongues

Invite the textures

And the taste

The sweet

The sour

The bitter

The salt—

Nourished by the whole.

 

 

For a moment each of them broke

Like a glass

And their senses spilled

On the ground

Gravity let them fall around—

Sight and hearing,

Smells

Touch and

Taste

No longer necessary

Because when a thing is real

Knowing is the only knowing.

 

copyright Jill Szoo Wilson

Photo Credit: This poem was inspired by a sculpture created by German artist Isabell Kamp.  The sculpture is entitled, Past d.  If you would like to see more of her work, please visit her Facebook page and/or website: Isabella Facebook Page ,Isabell’s Website

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