Here is a miracle
in our local cafe:

a boy
less than three
sitting not just still
but mesmorised
on his father’s knee.

Pressure point
massage:

around and around
that bone between
the shoulder blades.

His shoulders drop.
His jaw slacks.
His eyes glaze.

My eyes water.
My chest aches.
My throat thickens.

It is not enough.
Not this moment.
To watch closeness, touch
from two tables away.

Why?
Other times, I’ve smiled
seeing a baby stroked
or a couple kissing
in broad daylight.

Then
their intimacy and joy
has seemed near enough
to something I’ve had
will have
have.

But this little boy
waiting as one
with his dad:

why? Does

hot froth spill
onto my cheeks
like something that
can never
be had?

Then you hand me our pen.
We see.
We hear.
We know.

We write.
We sketch.
We let scalding tears
drop unscolded.

Why filter?
Oh the freedom
to weep if it comes
in a cafe at sunrise.

No more scorn
or ridicule
or sayitisn’tso.

We see.
We hear.
We know.

Look
you whisper,
climbing into my lap.
Remember
how we wanted to massage
your newborn? Yes, you laugh about it now
with him! – sweet

but you didn’t know then
that touch was like sandpaper
on his acutely wired skin.
He squirmed and

you saw.
You heard.
You knew
enough.

And look
these past weeks
your daughter
has howled beside you
for milk you both know
you can’t give –
her first true love,
withdrawn.

Yes
she said
she knew closeness
and care
would come again.

But right now
knowing that
wasn’t enough
to stop hurting.

Tears tick
like time
waiting for cells
to shed
and renew.

Until then
pores gape
hungry, insatiable.

We see.
We hear.
We know.

And of course
there’s that old, old wound:

all your own.
There’s touch you didn’t want
and touch you didn’t get.

We see.
We hear.
We know.

Look
your cheeks are dry now.

Your shoulders
wide.

No more demands
to let bygones be bygone.

No more scorn
for suddenly
present pain.

There’s point
when milk is spilt:
sometimes we cry the whole fridge.

Okay.

Now
the little boy turns to me.
His hot chocolate has arrived.
He has a broad brown beard.
He beams.

I smile
and walk home
noticing that the bark of all eucalypts
is not as smooth
as I believed.

Hearing parrots
bicker or boast about berries.

Making way for joggers.

Getting ready
to draw a little
of what

we see
we hear
we know

now.

 

Response to visual meditation ‘To see like you breathe’ and WordPress daily prompt Filter.