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For Melissa HawksWe pay our bill and say goodbyeto the others, scouting out a placeto sit so I can tell you about that movie.There is a bench outside the doorand the sun is shining full on itso we sit, bathed in warm gold.I mention the movie and the conversationcatapults back and forth in timeLast year, next monththis happened, that is going to happenand all the life in between is hard to talk about.There is hesitation and some halting starts,deep sighs, closed eyes.But you keep talking, looking upand around, asking out loud,"Why am I telling you this?"as the story hurtles its way out of youinto the light between us.The incidents and images piled uplike a tangle of dirty laundry at our feetbut I don't mind, I'll never mind.We squint when we face forwardit's too bright not to,but when we face each otherour eyes are open and we sharethe fits and starts of healing, in hushed tonesfor fear of scaring them away,or maybe we are afraid of scaring each other away.I ask questions to keep you talkingI know there is so much more in thereAnd when is a better time to strip downthan in the blinding sunwith someone next to youwho won't leave you alonewith the sadness and the loss,but will say, "I know. I know."We talk of poetry and writingand right there on that benchwith the bad jazz strainingthrough the outdoor speakerwe read some spoken wordback and forththe tentativeness gone,replaced by syllable and syncopation.We revel in the lines that tell whole historiesin a few spare versesand the filaments thatreach out, draw us togetherand we are no longer separate,apart, but we are one broken heartstruggling for the next beatwe inhale for the next stanzalike a bellows and when we let it out there is nothing frighteningnot a thing that tears asunderonly tendrils of lightswirling around uslike refracted raysand when they settlewe are reflecting fireand all that is brightand clean and sovery now.