The Writer's Voice
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Warm
by
Miko
at the French restaurant you spoke no English
garcon, s'il vous plait, garcon, je voudrais
foreign words clearly defined the perjury of your care
(I simply offered deaf-mute cards to passers-by)
your attitude, laissez-faire;
the bill, paid with counterfeit dollars;
an opera crowd, amused perhaps by how I could not translate
silence
you gave this rapt audience your verbal autograph before
we returned to a space of less pretense
outside, blistering gusts
that argued with collars and thoroughly upset hats
caught you unawares,
but I was already cold
from wondering about my role
knowing myself to be a character actor
who seemed typecast to validate the lead
then, suddenly, I was myself, so differently, caught unawares
by finding the Rosetta stone within myself
that released a soliloquy from the hieroglyphs
with an ancient tongue I communicated the raw
nature of integrity and survival
the speech, a shaft of sun on your vampire skin,
the ark of some new covenant, perhaps,
was infused thoroughly with a divine heat
your eyes ignited, your tongue burned out,
there soon spread a prickling heat across your surface
until not a bone was left
except for my bones
now warm
swathed in a spirit which proved itself
living
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