And No Further

there comes a bend in that road,
where time halts for tea and a cigarette,
and probability rushes off into the narrowing distance,
blurring wishful untruth and cold circumstance,
that’s how long love, even real love,
can hold its bruised breath,
that’s how long you can chase the subjunctive,
that far and no further;

grandma taught me a game once,
played with five brown cowrie shells,
tossing one into the air,
and scooping up the rest,
before it dropped neatly,
a delighted ping in the middle of her
small age crusted hand,
you have to know how to throw it, she’d say,
too far and it will angle away,
too near and there won’t be time,
always that far and no further;

and the evening I made deals with a god
I did not know, I could not see,
just give me this full night, I bartered,
and you can hand me an empty forever,
he smiled with his faceless face
and sighed through his formless form,
what colour is that benevolence?
here, he said, dropping the sun
into the organza pleats of the sea,
tonight will be longer, stars will outshine the moon,
but even your love, even real love, can take you
only that far and no further;

but alone is not alone when it smells
of ash and reheated tea,
and the past clatters on mosaic tiles
like broken cowrie shells,
frightened stars peek from behind
emboldened clouds, pregnant with day,
stacks of what might have been
stare back at you with familiar eyes,
memory keeps the mind on a tight leash,
and love arcs back to your lips no matter
how high you throw it,
how will you forget to remember
you have to dream to size,
that far and no further.