| When I touch your skin and goosebumps lift, it’s your mind that surfaces there. When your iris tightens mechanically around your pupil, that aperture becomes for me the blacked-out cockpit of your mind. It’s your mind that touches your tongue to mine, your mind that, when you’re driving, lowers your hand to my thigh almost mindlessly. Your mind like a pilot light inside your sleep, your mind that beats your heart— slower, then faster—infusion pump in the chest, flooding your mind. But your heart is not your mind. The curve of your hip; the soft skin of your wrist is not your mind. The tumor growing in your brain is just your brain, I say. The shape of your face; the sound of your voice, which I love so much, is not your mind. Your mind spills through—fire I can’t stop watching from the far side of this darkening valley. Copyright © 2016 Wayne Miller. Used with permission of the author. |
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