In Praise of Curves
…I have had to understand this tender wound under the skin of oppressors. For why else would they shame my emotions? They are merely afraid of their own. Yet intrigued… “What is this wild?”
Years ago we buried it under cities, under books. We locked the doors of our hearts, pressed them down low into dusty chambers where all the old things are.
We built walls around us then, and pressed them out, out into the edges, pressing all the wild things out. Far, far away. Or under, if we couldn’t press them far enough away – raze them to the ground. Grind them into dust and bury them deep, along with our heart boxes, with the old cups, swords, burial cloths, and bones of those we once loved.
But it is barren in this cold house, and we are lonely…for the soft world of curves and bends and breath and wind, for the tickle and touch of grasses under our feet, for boughs brushing, for stone roughing…
For all the textures and sounds have become the same – square, machine, man-made.
But owls duet at night, and stars twinkle in rhythms never the same… And one tree grows crooked as another grows straight – the difference of a few meters and a change in wind and stone…
And you and I, we too are crooked and straight. We too could sing songs to each other through the night. And the soft caress of skin, and a heart that knows our own – is there any greater pleasure in the world?
So it’s time we stepped out of our boxes – “…we left our homes, where we used to hide…” – and feel the bracing wind, the burning roughness under our feet, and listen, listen….
For there are songs forgotten, the company of wild things, a whole world to love…