Cry of the Stars

I know you hide
your hurt behind
that smiling face
and dim computer screen

I want to break
those barriers and
comfort you with
more than words

Forgive me for
this stupid silence—
I should be holding you up,
but don't know how.

--told me not

    (to hit to hate to hold any thing too close)

about the world outside me waiting:
at least, what I wanted.

I'd always thought
     fault was in speaker's lack of sense,
     not in
            not listening--
You're not listening!

I'll tell you over and
over and

   (don't let go don't lie don't love every thing)

but you--

I sigh in wet clouds stumbling,
shedding rain from my tongue
and snowflakes from my teeth.

Storms slip, rings from my lips:
my churning kisses to the earth.

I smile lightning, laugh thunder, spit hail;
let Heaven help you when I frown.

Unfold the tapestry hurriedly at first,
stretching quickly across the cool stone floor--
flatten the edges to show me where the figures
crawl, walk, then run.

Smooth the wrinkles slow, then.

Let me see heads held high in grief,
bowed low in laughing, turned aside in shame.

Flicker your fingers over threadbare patches,
filling them with brighter color, hoping
I won't notice. (I do.)

Point to the well-worn parts, show me your
favorite to unfold and stare again, again:
I know those perfect, steady warps and wefts
are tighter, neater than the holes you
nervously patched up for me.
We'll look together,
lightly trace those intricate motifs;
I'll catch my breath at them with you.

Before you fold it back again,
help me swiftly weave another,
a blurred copy to hang with care
behind my eyelids.
Your story's seventeenth in my collection,
but no less precious than the first.