This is a poem
for my friend Mishka
whom I have spoken to
a thousand lives
of estranged children
and life
and death
and lovers
who love
no more
It is for Mishka
whose quiet faded beauty
slowly emerged
before my weary eyes
like a sharp image
from a tenuous negative
For Mishka
who led me gently
down that winding path
of friendship
sometimes known
as love
Mishka
remember?
the thistles
had blocked our path
in purple arrogance
Remember?
we stood there
in wonderment
and curiosity
and as we touched
hesitantly at first
and then with boldness
our freshly moulted skins
oozed and bled
painful purple drops
into the dusty earth.